...ubuntu...

Jeddah

2011-01-27T08:03:00.003-05:00

This morning, there are inches of snow piling up outside. Below the snow, a good deal of ice. Two hour delay cancelled the morning class that I teach, but I'll still have to trudge through it at some point to get to campus for work and my evening class. Yesterday was pretty nasty too... lots of walking through sleet and heavy snow. Uncomfortable weather... glad I don't have to drive in it.

Yesterday, while I was anticipating heavy snowfall and debating my colleagues about the potential of a delayed/cancelled classes, some of my students were receiving news of something even more worrisome: flooding along the western coast of Saudi Arabia. Many of our students are Saudis; eight students out of the fourteen on my roster are from Saudi Arabia or a neighbouring state (Kuwait, UAE). I've become used to reading journal entries about Eid celebrations and vacations to Egypt.

Yesterday, I learned about flooding in Jeddah, the hometown of many of our students. Usually, I (semi-)keep up with international news via BBC and NPR. This time, though, the news came with pictures on a student's cell phone, photos sent from family members back home in Jeddah. Photos like these. In another class, individual student presentations were postponed in favour of a less stressful group discussion - because students who haven't been able to get in touch with Jeddah family members were too upset to complete their planned speeches.

This is part of teaching: the walking with my students through unexpected aspects of life. It's a valuable part, a way of reaching out and sharing a human moment. There isn't much I can do to stop the flooding in Jeddah. But I can - and will - provide a listening ear and a supportive heart to my Jeddah students, as will the rest of my colleagues.

Colours.

2011-01-24T07:23:00.003-05:00

We are in the season of dull colours, of darkness and drear, of late-rising and early-setting suns, of overcast days. The time of blankets and lamps, early morning coffee, and fresh-baked bread. There are days when you use the oven simply to add some heat, days when your hands ache from the cold of pocketless farmers' market mornings.

In this season, what joy it brings to find salad greens at the farmers' market, to receive a brightly coloured postcard, to drink coffee from a painted mug. I keep rainbow flip flops under my desk (just in case), marvel in the bliss of orange peppers and yellow bananas, and hide a pink shirt under my black button-down.

Today, take a breath, take a walk, and look for colours. Notice the reds, the greens, yellows, blues, orange and purple. Look past the greys and blacks and dull browns: see colour and hope of spring.

the value of a dollar

2011-01-23T20:57:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I forget that I'm in the U.S.

Buying a whole box of bananas from the back of a produce truck for ONE DOLLAR (yes, USD) augments that forgetfulness.

Of course, walking outside into the bitter January cold, usually in less than enough layers (yes, I'm constantly in denial of winter), goes a long way toward reminding me, though.

On Writing Well.

2011-01-14T15:13:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I write well... and sometimes, I write paragraphs for my students to edit. I should admit, however, that it took some effort to insert 25 errors into this single paragraph. We'll see how well my low-intermediate writing students do at finding - and fixing - them on Tuesday morning...

Good writing Tips

some students asked me for advice about how to become better writers We will covered many aspects of Good writing in this course, but here are a few tips to following. First, if you want to be a best writer, the most important thing you can do is to write as often as possible. Try to writing a paragraph (or more) evey day, even if she is not assigned in class. 1 great way for do this is by keeping your own personal journal. A second tips to becoming a better writer is to pay attention to simple detail. Make sure you use Punctuation capitalization, and verb tenses correctly. Use a dictionary to check the speling of new or confusing words. Third, frequent ask other people to read you're writing and offer suggestions. in this class, we will use a peer editing process to help each other become terrible writers Dont be afraid to ask the teacher or other students for help if you aren't sure about something. Together, we will worked hard this term to become better writers.

Today I'm thankful for...

2011-01-10T17:16:00.003-05:00

... the Philadelphia Fire Department.

The current scene 3 blocks west of my apartment:

News coverage:

The Associated Press
Monday, January 10, 2011; 4:43 PM

PHILADELPHIA -- A fire is ripping through a large Philadelphia apartment building, but firefighters say it has been evacuated and there are no reports of injuries.

Deputy Chief Willy Williams says light smoke was reported in the four-story building just after 2:30 p.m. Monday.

Flames have shot through the roof, and fire crew are attacking the flames from the outside. Smoke is billowing high into the air and can be seen from the city's downtown business district, about two miles away.

Williams says crews have gone through the building to get residents to safety, and there are no reports of injuries.

Source: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2011/01/10/AR2011011004741.html

Pop Up Insomnia.

2011-01-06T07:03:00.002-05:00

Sometimes, when I can't sleep, it's because my mind is racing, anxious, agonising over some specific happening(s). Other times, like last night, it's more calm, less distressed, just... well, as if my thoughts were those annoying little pop ups that crowd my desktop when I choose to visit heavily advertised websites.

*pop* *pop* *pop*

One thought, to another, to another, all night long. Almost falling asleep, maybe dozing for a bit, then, *pop*, another absolutely trivial bit of information demanding my attention. Sigh.

*pop* *pop* *pop* *pop* *pop*

It feels a bit like this...

[When you cut a blueberry muffin, you have to cut it just right. Or else you get blueberry blue-ness all over your knife and plate and fingers. I wonder if you can cut it just right? *spend next few minutes envisioning blueberry muffins (with extra berries) and attempting to figure out the perfect knife angle* Why would you cut a muffin in the first place? Just eat it...]

[I wonder if I should include a proposed schedule of topics in my syllabus that I distribute the first day of class. Maybe I should instead just survey students to see what cultural topics they'd like to discuss, then create my syllabus. But I already wrote the syllabus. I think it's okay that I keep the proposed schedule. I'll just point out my prerogative to make changes. I probably shouldn't use the word "prerogative". I need to add "technology" to the schedule...]

[I have cute/professional black shoes. And I have decent walking brown shoes. Do I have any brown shoes for being cute/professional? *contemplates shoes, realising most are for warmer weather than this* I wish summer were here already...]

[*imagines a disordered pile of multi-coloured, multi-sized pieces of paper* *imagines organising paper by size, smallest in front* *imagines knocking pile of paper against desk to align bottom and right edges* Sigh...]

[Dr. H. sent us the booklist last night. I already bought the books, though not the coursepack. I wonder if we have to read anything before the first class. But the syllabus isn't posted yet. Maybe I should just keep reading for Dr. S.'s class at this point...]

[It's almost 7. If I get up at 7, I can see the sunrise through the front (eastern) window. I think I'll get up now...]

*pop* *pop* *pop* *pop*

That was your brief sampling of my mind in intense insomnia mode. Time to do some work before I need a nap.

Scattered Thoughts.

2010-12-16T15:56:00.004-05:00

It's snowing outside. And by "snowing," I mean that all surfaces appear to be white. It wasn't snowing this morning when I decided to bike to work and school. It is snowing now. And it does appear that the snowing will continue through my class and commute (walking my bike) home. I'm trying to convince myself to appreciate the beauty which is softly falling snow.

A few hours from now, I'll have completed the last class of my first semester as a graduate student. About that, I feel ... meh? I've enjoyed one of my three classes this semester, felt a bit disappointed by the other two (including the one that still claims this evening). I'll keep writing and reading and working over the "break," so as nice as it will be to take a couple weeks off from attending classes, my life won't be that much different. I'm looking forward to next semester, though: I've got some really interesting (for me) classes potentially lined up.

I'm facilitating a holiday party tomorrow afternoon. At the library where I work on Friday afternoons. With the members of my conversation group, "Let's Speak English!" Good people, good group. I'm looking forward to the party - and potential cornucopia of tasty ethnic treats (although my Russian friends are disappointed by my "no vodka at the library" rule). I admit: I'll miss my LSE group over the holiday season, and I'm looking forward to starting up again at some point in January.

Also starting in January: I've been officially hired as an "Intern Lecturer" at a university-level English language program. I'll be teaching an elective class entitled "American Culture & Conversation." To be honest, it was an exhilarating feeling to write my own syllabus a few days ago! How's that for the resume?

Goal for tonight: finish preparing Christmas cookies for tomorrow's party.

Goal for the next couple weeks: lots of background reading for my spring courses (and for my academic discipline in general), figuring out how to balance (potentially) four part-time jobs and a full-time course load, and submitting a book review for publication.

Oh, and talking myself into enjoying the snow.

That last one might take the most work of all...

28th november 2009.

2010-12-14T23:12:00.004-05:00

silence,

in this city of never-quite-dark,

night has fallen,

but my mind will not rest.

slipping not into sleep,

returning instead to that night.

that night.

again.

it fills my thoughts too often,

spilled water,

whispered words,

light kisses,

too-tight hugs,

reddened eyes,

six escalators past security,

and time to board.

that night -

so sure i was doing the right thing,

it had to be right,

it had been right,

how couldn't it be?

- shattering my own heart

and some others.

tear-streaked journal pages,

that catch in my throat,

a punch to the gut,

so much was lost,

like sand thrown into the wind -

i live with few regrets,

but,

that night

cannot be reclaimed.

a year has passed

and more,

yet still

that night

haunts my nights.

Reverse Chronology.

2010-12-07T10:58:00.013-05:00

some nights, you just have to dress up...

(new) worm bin!

orchid for the teacher.

blueberry walnut salad!

pesto from scratch.

kristina ~ morgan.

butterfly.

AT morning.

rock fall.

(AT - Sept 2010)

valley view.

(AT - Sept 2010)

Jersey beach wind.

accessorising.

yogurt garden.

bluebies!

cute shoes.

made-from-scratch.

DC spring.

easter sibs.

too-cute-to-work-in work boots.

my hair grows...

colours.

doodles.

snow!

london. (Feb 2010)

gloria learns to use a simu.

farewell party. (gulu - Jan 2010)

maple blueberry scones! (lira - jan 2010)

water. (atiak - jan 2010)

travel garb.

laundry with joy.

igp.

[income generation project]

mac fun.

prayer.

sweetheart.

pure sugar.

market. (masaka - dec 2009)

wet.

aron's mango.

Winter.

2010-12-06T13:09:00.004-05:00

Winter is not my favourite season. By far.

When I was younger, I loved autumn, especially as it transitioned to winter. I didn't mind the chill and I loved playing in the snow. It sent a certain thrill through me to smell the crispness of the air which came right before snow.

Sigh. Those days are no more.

These days, I cringe at the sight of snow flurries spinning through the air. I become cold right about the moment I close the door of my building in the morning... and I seem to stay cold all day. I wear long-sleeves, a sweater, and sometimes gloves all day; I drink coffee to stay warm. To no avail, however. I sometimes feel almost warm when I study in the Graduate Student Center (which also offers the perk of free coffee!), but never in the Graduate School of Education. GSE knows not the nature of warmth, I do believe.

But, oh well, it is winter, and I suppose I must resign myself to the nature of being cold.

It's been a few years since I survived a northern hemisphere winter: both my body and psyche prefer to spend these months much closer to the equator. Coming back from Uganda in February of this year, in the midst of one of the snowiest winters in recent history, was shock enough to my system.

And here I am, at the beginning of December, staring down another long, cold winter in Pennsylvania. It's already so cold (weather . com currently suggests that the outside temperature "feels like" 24F) that I shiver at the mere thought of walking the 8.5 blocks from my apartment to GSE - and so windy that I sometimes have to bow my head and talk myself through it ("keep walking. one step after another. you can go inside soon.). Twice now I've seen snow in the air: first on my birthday/Thanksgiving, then again this afternoon.

Winter is arriving in this part of the world where I have chosen to locate myself. Hibernation seems not to be an option (I can neither pass my classes nor faithfully complete my employment duties if I just stay in my apartment until April), though it is a very tempting contemplation. I guess I'll just have to figure out a way to survive - and be glad of the fact that I can come home to hot tea, a stifling apartment, and some good old-fashioned cuddling.

What I've Been Writing...

2010-12-06T13:01:00.004-05:00

For those who might be interested, here's an example of the type of writing I have been doing this semester... an academic synthesis essay required weekly for my Language Diversity & Education class...

It is perhaps easy as a scholar of language and educational linguistics to laud the value of “multilingualism”, “hybridization”, and “translanguaging”, and to call for pedagogies which attend to and empower those points at the traditionally less powerful ends of the continua of biliteracy (Hornberger & Skilton-Sylvester, 2003, pp. 38-9). As an ESL or bilingual teacher, burdened with “standardized” content and exams, and balancing an overwhelming teaching load, I wonder if it might not seem less possible to enact such valuable practices. Hardman (2003), for example, describes an ESL/bilingual teacher who “seems to feel a bit powerless in the face of the demands of [Content-Based Instruction]” (p. 241). Can such teachers be empowered to enact the types of pedagogies which nurture bi(multi)-lingual students' full bi(multi)-lingualism/literacy? Numerous examples of teachers negotiating the micro-level practices and content of their classrooms both suggest that this is possible and point to the crucial role of critical reflection.

The KEEP-Rough Rock partnership highlights the value of critical reflection if teachers are to “construct empowering learning environments for [Navajo] children” (McCarty, 2002, p. 149). Prior to the collaboration, teachers described themselves as “technicians” and “parrots” (McCarty, 2002, p. 149) reading a standardize content script mandated by district officials. The KEEP teacher training program, eventually extended to Rough Rock, empowered teachers by encouraging “teacher thinking and reflection” and providing the time and resources necessary for such reflection (Vogt & Au, 1995, p. 102). Trained to reflect upon their practice, to utilize local funds of knowledge and qualitative assessments, and to question the implicit value of “standards”, teachers assumed ownership of their curricula and pedagogies and began to value local cultural knowledge as an education resource for their students (Begay, et al., 1995; McCarty, 2002; Vogt & Au, 1995).

Within the classroom, critical reflective practices emerge in pedagogies which feature contextualized content (Hornberger & Skilton-Sylvester, 2003, pp. 50-56), value multiliteracies (The New London Group, 1996, pp. 63-64), and embrace bilingual norms (Cahnmann, 2003, pp. 188-89). For example, Mexican-American bilingual teachers in training reflectively constructed “shared social identity” with students, thus enabling them to contextualize content within shared cultural knowledge (Perez, Flores, & Strecker, 2003, pp. 227-28). Schwinge’s (2003) study demonstrated that even teachers constrained by “standardized” content could promote the development of bi(multi)literacy by adapting and augmenting the manner in which they presented such content. Additionally, educators aware of the tension between learner-centered and curriculum-centered content empowered students by teaching more than simply the decontextualized standard forms (Hardman, 2003).

Returning to the original questions, there does seem to be hope that critically reflective practitioners – even constrained by a “standardized” curriculum – can indeed empower and facilitate the bi(multi)-lingualism/literacy of their students. While it may seem at times an overwhelming and daunting task, micro-level pedagogic choices do make a difference. As Schwinge (2003) optimistically concludes:

While individually each of the curricular adaptations and elaborations that are provided by teachers who act as bottom-up language and literacy planners are small changes to classroom literacy activities, in the long run they may have a large effect on the ability of students to increase their knowledge of the content of the texts they read and to develop biliteracy. (p. 264)

References

Begay, S., Dick, G.S., Estell, D.W., Estell, J., McCarty, T.L., & Sells, A. (1995). Change from the inside out: A story of transformation in a Navajo community school. The Bilingual Research Journal, 19, pp. 121-39.

Cahnmann, M. (2003). To correct or not to correct bilingual students’ errors is a question of continua-ing reimagination. In N.H. Hornberger (Ed.), Continua of biliteracy: An ecological framework for educational policy, research, and practice in multilingual settings (pp. 187-204). Tonawanda, NY: Multilingual Matters, Ltd.

Hardman, J. (2003). Content in rural ESL programs: Whose agendas for biliteracy are being served? In N.H. Hornberger (Ed.), Continua of biliteracy: An ecological framework for educational policy, research, and practice in multilingual settings (pp. 232-47). Tonawanda, NY: Multilingual Matters, Ltd.

Hornberger, N.H., & Skilton-Sylvester, E. (2003). Revisiting the continua of biliteracy: International and critical perspectives. In N.H. Hornberger (Ed.), Continua of biliteracy: An ecological framework for educational policy, research, and practice in multilingual settings (pp. 35-67). Tonawanda, NY: Multilingual Matters, Ltd.

McCarty, T.L. (2002). A place to be Navajo. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.

Perez, B., Flores, B.B., & Strecker, S. (2003). Biliteracy teacher education in the US Southwest. In N.H. Hornberger (Ed.), Continua of biliteracy: An ecological framework for educational policy, research, and practice in multilingual settings (pp. 207-31). Tonawanda, NY: Multilingual Matters, Ltd.

Schwinge, D. (2003). Enabling biliteracy: using the continua of biliteracy to analyze curricular adaptations and elaborations. In N.H. Hornberger (Ed.), Continua of biliteracy: An ecological framework for educational policy, research, and practice in multilingual settings (pp. 248-65). Tonawanda, NY: Multilingual Matters, Ltd.

The New London Group (1996). A pedagogy of multiliteracies: Designing social futures. Harvard Educational Review, 66, pp. 60-92.

Vogt, L.A., & Au, K.H.P. (1995). The role of teachers’ guided reflection in effecting positive program change. The Bilingual Research Journal, 19, pp. 101-20.

I'm (potentially) returning to the blog-osphere...

2010-12-06T12:53:00.004-05:00

It's been awhile since I posted here, which might lead one to think that I haven't been doing much reading/writing. That would be, to put it simply, a drastic misassumption. Three months into my first semester as a full-time graduate student, I feel like all I do these days is read, write, and discuss what I'm reading and writing. Mostly I enjoy this (though there are certainly moments/hours/days/weeks when I really really really miss being in a classroom actually teaching)... but the fact that I'm doing so much heavy/academic/formal reading and writing hasn't left much time or brain power for writing in this space. I've missed it, though, and have kept multiple blog-type topics percolating on the back burner of my mind. As the semester winds down (one essay, two presentations, five class meetings, and one take-home exam stand between me and the end of the academic semester), I've started reading for pleasure again* and am (potentially/probably/hopefully) returning to this writing space as well. So... welcome back into the recesses of my brain.

*Looking for a good read? I HIGHLY recommend First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria: How a Peace Corps Poster Boy Won My Heart and a Third-World Adventure Changed My Life, by Eve Brown-Waite.

Just overheard on our street:

2010-09-12T19:12:00.002-04:00

"So our roommate left a note that there's a squirrel in the bathroom."

Why I Love My Job :)

2010-08-10T23:11:00.002-04:00

I always start the first class with my older elementary schoolers - rising second through fifth graders - by explaining two things: my expectations and my goals. Here's the gist of what I tell them...

"I need you to know that in this class, you are going to have fun, but I also expect each one of you to work very hard. I've got two goals for you in this class: to help you be a better reader and to help you like reading more. That means, that if you already like reading and think you're a good reader, you're going to be an even better reader by the time you finish this class! And, if you don't like reading that much or think you're not very good at it, you're going to be good at reading and like it more by the time we finish this class."

And then we dive in. To reading and tellbacks and main events and discussions of characters, story and meaning. To phonics and long word decoding and strategies for dealing with unrecognizable words. To memorable characters and absorption and light bulb moments.

Week 3 started today. I'm tired. (Don't let the late hour of this post fool you - I just got home from an hour long commute and it takes a bit to wind down after working so hard to stay awake on an empty highway.) I've reached that point where I know most of my students' names (and quirks), and I'm starting to shift my energy away from laying out my expectations to providing individual feedback and making sure that everyone is making progress toward his or her individual goals. With more than 200 students this term, that takes some doing. I spend chunks of time on the phone with parents or meeting with them after classes, answering questions and encouraging their efforts. Sometimes I come away from such encounters tired, particularly if there has been some confrontation involved or I've had to reiterate repeatedly my expectations for what they or their child will do at home and in the class.

But sometimes, as was the case this afternoon, a phone call turns out to be more of a gem than I ever expected - and by the time I hang up the phone, I've been reminded repeatedly why I like my job so much.

I was calling to check in with the Mom of a third grader who'd struggled with the in-class work during week 1 and then with the home practice during the first week. Mom had written me a letter detailing some of their struggle, and I wanted to respond to some questions she had asked me. I left a voicemail first, and she called me back a short time later.

I did far more listening than talking in that fifteen minute phone call. "Miss Lewis," she started, "[my son] is doing so great this week! He's actually enjoying reading!" This is a boy who'd struggled with reading in the past, whose teachers had repeatedly labeled him as below grade level, who had worked with an individual reading tutor for months before starting this class.

"You can't understand how much it means to me. He comes home from your class telling us what I great time he had. This week, he's been coming downstairs in the morning and asking if we can read now. He sees me reading and goes to get his book so we can both have our reading time." For a Mom who has spent the last few years worrying that her son might never enjoy reading, hearing him get excited about reading class and want to read is music in her ears.

He's just starting to transition to silent reading, so Mom was also worried that he might not be reading everything or understanding what he was reading, especially as he starts to jump into short chapter books. "I asked him to tell me about what he had just read, and he just went on and on. I couldn't keep track of all the different details he was telling me: it was like he was telling me the whole story again, making sure I knew that he had understood everything!"

She went on, telling me how he's started to use the decoding skills I'm teaching him in class when he comes across long words he doesn't recognize, covering up prefixes/suffixes and sounding out the base word. Voila! As is so often the case at this stage of reading, he discovers he does know that word - he'd just never seen it in print before. Confidence boosted, he keeps reading, becoming more and more absorbed in the story as he goes.

This isn't the first time a parent has shared a story like this with me, but I don't always get to hear about all the difference this program is making for my students. Really, it's why I do what I do: because I love to read, and even more than that, I love helping my students fall in love with reading!

Welcome.

2010-07-26T20:12:00.005-04:00

A number of people have, shall we say, strongly encouraged me to post pictures of our apartment in Philly. After a few spurts of decorating, the most recent of which occurred this past super hot weekend, its becoming more and more homelike - and has finally reached the point where pictures won't feature mainly blank walls and stacks of empty cardboard boxes.

So, here, a brief tour of the flat... hopefully enough to whet your appetite for a visit ;)

our modern-day larder:

enough to feed my significant other for a week?

plus, three days worth of teaching materials packed and ready to go.

herbs sprout very quickly in a philadelphia "green house"...

a desk much cleaner than mine.

knick knacks in cubby holes: each with its own story.

a good space for living.

you're invited to dine with us.

note the theme?

wander down the hallway...

kitchen!

it gets pretty hot in here, but usually smells oh so good.

let your mind wander the world while you chop some veggies.

continue down the hall...

the loo.

(built for midgets)

morning view: eclectic living.

our lovely - and so spacious - back porch!

fabulous mulberry tree, whose fruits lie sleeping in our freezer.

A Phenomenal Poem.

2010-07-20T22:53:00.002-04:00

When I went to the library to pick out Maya Angelou's memoir, I noticed a collection of her poetry sitting next to it on the shelf. Being myself, I naturally checked that one out as well. This afternoon, waiting for students to arrive for my classes, I flipped through its pages, reading this verse or that, losing myself in the rhythm of her voice.

I love poetry. There is something beautiful and monumentous about riding the ebbs and flows of language and cadence. I need to read poetry more often: this I realize every time I do immerse myself in verse. Sigh. And let it be.

Anyway, here's a poem from Maya that I - and the friends I read it aloud to this evening - absolutely adore. And I dedicate its posting to all the phenomenal women in my life...

"Phenomenal Woman"

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

The palm of my hand,

The need for my care.

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Life Reflected.

2010-07-20T10:03:00.004-04:00

I have just finished reading Maya Angelou's memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. A teacher friend and I chose it as the first book for our recently started book club. It's taken me a few weeks to get through, but I have thoroughly enjoyed this book and the reflections it has elicited.

I first "discovered" memoirs a few years ago. I credit a mentor of mine, a wise and reflective woman, with that introduction. I quickly fell in love with the honest stories and the reflective wisdom which caresses my own poetic nature. Still today, there is something refreshing about slipping into someone else's story, listening to someone else's thoughts, and reflecting on the intersections of our distinct lives. It is a type of writing, a type of thinking, which comes naturally when my mind is calm and at peace.

It's a balance, this writing style, between telling a story from the past and reflecting on it in the future. Mixing the honesty of the experience once lived through with the meaning realized in hind sight. An art form, really.

Let me share with you, here, a passage I particularly enjoyed from Maya Angelou's work:

"My education and that of my Black associates were quite different from the education of our white schoolmates. In the classroom we all learned past participles, but in the streets and in our homes the Blacks learned to drop s's from plurals and suffixes from past-tense verbs. We were alert to the gap separating the written word from the colloquial. We learned to slide out of one language and into another without being conscious of the effort. At school, in a given situation, we might respond with 'That's not unusual.' But in the street, meeting the same situation, we easily said, 'It be's like that sometimes.'"

Pencils.

2010-07-06T23:13:00.002-04:00

I decided today that pencils are my favorite renewable resource. (Well, or at least a close second to water...).

I'm a teacher.

I had a parent ask me a question today that I was used to fielding in Uganda (with this exact phrasing) but haven't dealt with so much in the US:

"Are you a teacher by profession?"

My response today, as it almost always is, was affirmative: "Yes."

Today's parent followed up with encouragement: "I can tell. You're very good at it." (A blessed confidence booster after a crazy afternoon of traffic that resulted in me reaching my teaching site ten minutes before that class started - so glad I didn't procrastinate this week's prep!)

I don't have a degree in Education (yet). I don't hold a teaching certificate. But I do have a decent amount of training in teacherly type things (and plenty of it specific to the work that I'm doing now) and a fair amount of experience.

I am a teacher by vocation - and, at least currently - by profession.

And, as a teacher, pencils are essential to my line of work. Other writing utensils can be useful, but even with my adult students, there are times when a good sharp pencil - with an easily rubbable eraser - is just a basic necessity.

Because I often require students to write with pencils (or at all), I have a bag of them that I bring to every class. Three weeks into this teaching term, I've seen a fair number of my pencils walk away. Or, perhaps I should say, I haven't seen them: students or their parents have (usually accidentally) walked away with them.

Given the frequency with which I lose pencils, one might expect my supply to be rapidly dwindling. This is not, however, the case.

Enter today's grand realization: Pencils are a fabulous renewable resource.

What do I mean?

Only this: as quickly as I lose pencils, I seem also to be gaining them. And some of the ones I've come away with are more fun than the ones I started with. For example, although I originally filled my bag with plain yellow #2 pencils, today's assessment notes were taken with a lovely white and green "Happy Halloween" pencil.

It might bother me that so many of my pencils tend to find new homes so easily - if not for the fact that I keep coming away with others to replace them.

Like I said, a fabulous renewable resource.

thirty two.

2010-06-28T21:44:00.002-04:00

Saturday marked the turning of an era, or at least the reaching of an annual milestone, in my boyfriend's life. Twenty six years previous, his mother, bless her soul, had borne him into this world, no doubt hoping for a well-behaved easygoing son: the kind who seems a blessing and a delight every single moment.

Twenty six years later, it is no small matter to celebrate his continued existence, particularly given his propensity for semi-harrowing adventure and fondness for that which can be made to explode. And so, celebrate we did!

One of his favorite foods (quite possibly his most favorite in the whole entire world) is blueberries. Coincidentally, blueberry season in this region of the continent tends to begin in mid to late June and extend a good way into July. (Head up to New York if you want to find blueberries in August.)

Be not surprised, therefore, dear readers, to hear that I spent a good chunk of time last week researching and calling farms which purported to host pick your own blueberries. Eventually, I settled on "Fred + III," a family-owned and interestingly named patch located in Pemberton, New Jersey. When I called Fred on Friday afternoon, he assured me that his blueberries were in season and ready for picking, despite the catastrophic thunder storm which had swept through our region the day before.

So, plans were made: to depart early on Saturday morning, to bring along some other Molecular Bio-type friends, to take our largest empty tupperware containers, to pick fabulous lovely sweet blueberries. Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful; as soon as the friends arrived, we were off on our adventure, heading east toward the excitement which awaited us.

We found Fred's place easily enough; he turned out to be quite a sweet and helpful old codger. Despite never having picked their own fruit before, our friends took to it fairly quickly. The bushes were so hung with berries that two of us could work down the same row and barely seem to make a dent: Fred has an abundant crop this year! Before long, we had each filled a can, then another, each holding four pounds.

By the time we called it quits, dustier and slightly browner than when we arrived, the four of us had picked thirteen cans worth of berries. At $1.25 per pound, significantly less than any fresh fruit available in the city, how could we not take advantage of this opportunity?

Our friends took home their share, leaving us with the thirty two (yes, 32) pounds of blueberries we bought from Fred that morning. All of Saturday afternoon was spent sorting and preserving these delicacies. Our freezer and fridge were feeling quite hospitable, and I haven't gone many hours without eating blueberries since waking up on Saturday morning.

Thirty two pounds worth of blueberries should provide an abundance of blueberry-enhanced dishes: muffins, pie, cobbler, jam, coffee cake, smoothies, just to name a few. We want to try some more exotic recipes: cold blueberry soup amongst them.

Mostly, though, those thirty two pounds hold out the simple promise of a sweet blue winter. If you come to visit, you might just get a warm muffin...

Out My Window

2010-06-28T21:06:00.002-04:00

I'm sitting at my desk drinking a "made from scratch" blueberry oj coconut rum smoothie, greatly appreciative for the cool breeze created by a fan set on high. My computer sits in front of the pile of books I'll be teaching from this week; lesson plans, assessment sheets, and an abundant supply of colored markers spill across the remainder of the black faux wood.

My desk is tucked into a corner of our front room: the left corner, where I sit now, backs up against one of our street-side windows. As I sat down to write this evening, intending to blog about this or that story from my life, I thought of a prompt I once heard from a friend: to write about what one sees out one's window everyday. Over the past year, as I've transitioned from place to place to yet another place, I've often reflected on the events, people, and images framed by my windows.

Now, as I once again settle in, with no intentions to leave on the near horizon, I catch myself contemplating this window - and what I see through its screen (for it's far too muggy to keep our windows closed).

We live on a quiet street, Buckingham Place, a home for royalty if one slips an extra vowel. Tucked between 44th and 45th, one-way traffic only, it's all of one block long. The kind of street that you likely only know exists if you live here, or know someone who lives here, or just like to walk around West Philly and discover all the hidden streets. The kind of street that doesn't cater to emergency vehicles or public transportation or any kind of acceleration.

There is a tree directly out my window and electrical lines strung with sneakers. One of these days, I'll probably have something very important to procrastinate: those shoes must eventually be counted (or perhaps photographed). Through the branches and leaves, the other side of the street looms, every house the same as ours - and yet, not. Built identical, the buildings are now old and each much proud of its own particular character. Each has a front porch; this is the kind of street where people sit on their porches, have parties on their porches, keep strange statues on their porches, even philosophize on their porches. I don't know most of my neighbors, but I am acquainted with the homeless man who does know all of them, and who often sleeps on one or another porch.

My boyfriend calls it a hippie street - and then tells me that I fit in perfectly. Something about my flowing skirts and eccentric jewelry: we live on a street where drummers and landscapers and writers all seem to sip from the fount of creativity. Some nights there enters through my window a cool breeze, a twist of melody, the murmur of lives lived.

Through my window, I glimpse my life.

OMM!

2010-06-23T20:37:00.003-04:00

Compliments of a rising first grader in one of my classes today, my new favorite exclamation: "Oh my mother!"

Now, I tend to find it humorous when four and five year olds exclaim, "Oh my goodness!" (even more so if it doesn't fit the context...). But "Oh my mother!"? I must admit that, despite the fact that my younger friends tease me about being "old," my twenty four and a half years of existence had never blessed me with this lovely phrasing.

So, here's the context:

We read two books in the first week's lesson for the rising first grade class: Morris the Moose (the virtues of which I clearly outlined in a previous post!) and We're Going on a Bear Hunt. The former book gives my students a chance to practice reading on their own, with support from whatever adult is attending the class with them. The latter, however, I have the pleasure of reading aloud to the group, and then, right at the end of the class time, acting out.

This week's dramatization was grand: eleven bear hunters and I marched around the room, swishing through tall grass, stumbling through a dark and gloomy forest, and tiptoeing into a scary cave! Of course, once we found the bear in his cave, we hightailed it back home - and under the covers - and declared our bear hunt over. Admittedly, some of my more, shall we say, excitable young gentlemen wanted to continue "hunting," but I sent them home instead.

Even before we began the dramatization however, a very small - and usually shy - young lady made my day! It was during my first reading of the story, which I may have dramatized a bit myself. The bear hunting family had swished through the tall grass, squished to the other side of the oozy mud, and even splashed across a river. But then, they happened upon a "swirling, whirling snowstorm". And, as one of my students had so wisely pointed out earlier, they weren't wearing coats: "The baby is even in her jammies!"

At this point, from the front row, totally out of the blue, a small voice exclaimed, "Oh my mother!"

And I tried not to giggle too much as I shivered my way through the howling wind and swirling snow.

Not once, but...

2010-06-21T21:20:00.002-04:00

thrice!

That's right: this is the third new post on my blog this evening.

It's high time this writing hiatus comes to an end, and what better way to commence a new period of public reflection than by sharing stories from my new classrooms.

So, to those of you who've waited out this silent period with me, thanks for sticking around.

And no, despite my boyfriend's fears, the sky doesn't appear to be falling tonight. Do be expecting me to blog more frequently again, though.

Silly Morris!

2010-06-21T21:04:00.003-04:00

One of the books I teach in my class for entering first graders is Morris the Moose, by B. Wiseman. It's a fun beginning reader story about a moose (named Morris) who meets a cow and thinks she's a moose. As Morris points out throughout the story, she has "four legs and a tail and things on her head" so she is obviously a moose. The cow spends a few pages trying to convince Morris otherwise. Eventually they seek the help of first a deer and then a horse, neither of which are any help, as they both just think that everyone else is the same kind of animal as themselves. I'll leave you in suspense as to how they eventually resolve Morris' "moose-take" - you'll have to read it for yourselves!

After reading it aloud to my class the first time, then having my students practice reading themselves, with support from their parents, one of the questions I asked was this: "If you were the cow, what would you have said to make Morris believe that you weren't a moose?"

Some of their answers were fairly straightforward, things I would have thought of myself:

"I would tell him that the things on my head are different from the things on his head!"

"He should look at the cow's body and see that they're not the same."

"They should look at the feet. The cow has different feet than Morris."

My favorite response, though, was a bit more direct:

"The cow should just tell Morris to be HONEST!"

Said with just that much emphasis.

Yeah, I think that might take care of the matter!

So many books... so little time.

2010-06-21T20:37:00.002-04:00

I used to have a t-shirt with the title phrase on it. A gift from someone who knew me well in my adolescence. For as long as I can remember, I've loved reading. To find me without a book, especially during my elementary and middle school daily bus riding career, would have a ridiculously improbable expectation. There were points, perhaps around 5th and 6th grade, when I had to have at least two books in my backpack at all times -- because I would read, on average, about a book a day. Then I started to discover thicker books, with pages numbering in the upper hundreds: those might sometimes take a few days. Suffice it to say, my love for reading was instilled - and nurtured - from a very young age.

Given this fact, it should not surprise you that I am absolutely positively thrilled about my summer job!

What is this amazing assignment, you might ask?

Well, let me tell you about it :)

About a month ago, I was hired by the Institute of Reading Development to teach - wait for it! - summer reading enrichment classes. I've spent most of the last month studying curriculum, reading fantastic pieces of juvenile literature, and preparing to teach. Most of it was "distance training," which involved a lot of individualized study and long conference calls.

Training ended a week ago, though, and the first term of the summer program started on Saturday. I had my first set of classes yesterday at the University of Delaware. First graders in the morning, then fourth & fifth graders in the early afternoon, and middle schoolers for my last group. I came home exhausted, but I had a great time. [And though some of you might think I'm crazy, I still hold that my favorite age group to work with is that slightly reluctant middle school range.]

One day, three (out of eight that I will teach) levels taught, one long check-in with my supervisor, and one phone call to a frustrated parent into the term, I am still absolutely thrilled about this job. I mean, how couldn't I be?

I'm back in a classroom, which I'm realizing more and more is exactly where I belong. I'm teaching reading, which is something I personally love. I get to work through great books - Fellowship of the Ring, Banner in the Sky, Henry Huggins, Cricket in Times Square, The Stories Julian Tells, Where the Wild Things Are, just to name a few - with kids who really identify with the characters and connect with the story. I really like my supervisor, and I've got a great curriculum to work from. I'll be teaching across a variety of levels - my eleven classes range from preschoolers all the way up to adult professionals. I'm adding some new skills - reading level assessment and speed reading techniques - to my repertoire. And, starting tomorrow, I get to spend half of every week (for the next five) in Mechanicsburg, teaching classes only a few miles away from my alma mater.

Speaking of Mechanicsburg, I'm headed that way tomorrow. Seven (large) boxes of books and other materials are packed and sitting by my apartment door, waiting to be loaded into my car tomorrow morning. My lesson plans and teaching materials are piled up on my desk, about to slide into my backpack. My books are studied, notes written, and I'm excited about meeting a brand new set of students and parents.

[For any of you that might be interested: these are reading enrichment classes, and enrollment is still open. Visit http://readingprograms.org/ and type in your home zip code to learn more. And if you're in the Mechanicsburg/Grantham/Harrisburg area, know that I'd love to see you [my adult class has lots of empty space] or your child(ren) in one of my classes!]

I'm getting paid to teach reading. I've pinched myself, but I keep waking up and finding this to still be true. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm absolutely excited about this :)

A Minimal Update

2010-05-28T07:52:00.003-04:00

Copied directly from an email I wrote this morning, here is some news that I would typically have shared on Facebook - but I recently deleted my account - or reflected at length on here - but I've been exhaustingly busy of late and thus neglecting the writerly side of my self. Hopefully that will change soon. But for now, here's a bit of news:

First, I have a summer job. I'll be working as a Reading Teacher for a program called the Institute of Reading Development. I'll be teaching reading enrichment classes from preschool all the way through adults in Philadelphia and the surrounding region. I'm in the midst of training for this position right now and am greatly excited. This job will begin June 19th and continue until August 30th.

Second, I learned yesterday evening that I have been accepted into a Master's of Education program at the University of Pennsylvania, to start this fall if I accept. The program is in the Language and Literacy division of the Graduate School of Education, and would be in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. You probably won't be too surprised to hear that I'm pretty excited about this possibility and am currently trying to figure out if I can afford it (I've been offered a partial tuition scholarship and a graduate assistantship which would certainly help offset some of the cost).

And third, because I've been so awful at keeping in touch with some of you, just wanted to let you know that I'm in the process of moving up to Philadelphia. If you desire my new mailing address, please let me know.

fifteen year old wisdom.

2010-04-22T21:02:00.001-04:00

"i want a job because i want money but i don't want to have to work."

don't we all, dear, don't we all.

what we talk about.

2010-04-21T22:49:00.002-04:00

A few days ago, I sat at the dining room table in my friends' house. There were four of us, sitting around the table, college friends drinking tea and catching up on each other's lives.

A scene playing out, not for the first time.

Only this time, the dialogue took a slightly different turn.

Our conversations used to revolve around such topics as classwork, professors, global injustices, relationships, philosophical principles, how little sleep we'd gotten recently, and how much better Wegmans is than any other grocery store.

This time: rising public transportation costs, healthcare benefits, networking and applying for jobs, other people's weddings, our respective jobs, gardening, and how much better Wegmans is than any other grocery store.

A lot changes as we grow up.

But some things never change.

Like how wonderful it is to drink tea with old friends.

The Thing about Knowledge.

2010-04-11T21:00:00.004-04:00

Towards the end of his memoir, The Worlds of a Maasai Warrior: An Autobiography (1986), Tepilit Ole Saitoti reflects on the educational opportunities that he sought and received in the UK and US. Contemplating the increased awareness resulting from his cross-cultural and inter-continental experiences, he writes:

"By then I had come face to face with the painful realities of knowledge. One who understands is freer in the head but sadder in the heart. It is sad to know that there is so much wrong in our world, and for the most part we are helpless to do anything about it.

...

Western education had opened up so many vistas for me, and made me aware of so many complications. It confronted me with the broader spectrum of things within which I live. My brothers live according to the seasons and accept death and rebirth as normal. They are spared the anguish and the failures I sometimes experience."

'cause everything is never what it seems.

2010-04-10T21:54:00.009-04:00

a few weeks ago, i spent a saturday evening hanging out with a very good friend in harrisburg, pennsylvania. we went to midtown scholar for coffee and to browse the shelves of used tomes. i searched through an entire wall of poetry shelves but found nothing from africa. which was sad.

far more enjoyable, however, was encountering another good friend, who just happened to be working at midtown. our conversation started with her informing me - quite emphatically - that i was now dating my boyfriend, a surprise that had absolutely delighted her when she was facebook stalking one or the other of us. the evening progressed: coffee, smuggling food into the theater, (2d) alice in wonderland, film criticism in the car. all good times.

at the end of the evening, liz gifted me with some old calendar pages she had found while cleaning the bookstore. use them, she told me, for some creative purpose. such a delightful charge.

so tonight, i did.

a few old calendar pages, a handful of glue sticks, some coloured paper. the result: a pile of eclectic and quirky postcards. such fun :)

*note: should you appreciate such craft enough to desire such items yourself, i may consider selling some of them. interested? send me a message.

Vocation.

2010-04-04T23:24:00.007-04:00

During my undergraduate years, "vocation" was one of the buzzwords we heard often. Recently, it's been on my mind again - the concept more than the word.

The future looms high, a blanker slate than I've seen in a very long time. At this point, I know where I'm planning to be living a few months from now, but really, I have no idea what I'll be doing. As I start to apply for jobs and contemplate the possibility of graduate school, I have high hopes - but also more than a little fear. It is exciting to think of walking unknown paths, in part because they are likely to hold both joy and sorrow, blessings and frustrations.

In a couple months, I will be starting again - again. New place, new people, new job (hopefully), new routine and rhythm of life. As I navigate yet another transitional space, I find my mind naturally contemplating my own identity - and my vocation. I think about who I am and who I want to be, and I am drawn ever more to writings that reflect those thoughts and challenge my imagination.

Below, two pieces which have been floating in my mind today.

The first, a quote that I heard at a church service this morning. My immediate response, after hearing it, was to wonder what currently developing, formerly colonised country the speaker was from.

"If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us walk together."
--Lila Watson, Aboriginal activist.

And the second, quite possibly one of my favourite poems, which was posted at the Reconcilers blog this morning. Written by Wendell Berry, it captivates my thinking anew every time I hear it. It is the last line I have been contemplating most today: the mandate to "Practise resurrection." It is, I do believe, the most perplexing line in the poem, in part because "resurrection" is a concept foreign to my daily existence. But there it stands, the closing line, as if to summarise all the rest, calling the phoenix to rise from the ashes and beckoning light into dark places.

Manifesto:

The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay.

Want more of everything ready-made.

Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.

Not even your future will be a mystery anymore.

Your mind will be punched in a card

and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something,

they will call you.

When they want you to die for profit,

they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something that won't compute.

Love the Lord. Love the world.

Work for nothing.

Take all that you have and be poor.

Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace the flag.

Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands.

Give your approval to all you cannot understand.

Praise ignorance,

for what man has not encountered, he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millenium.

Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted into mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus

that will build under the trees

every thousand years.

Listen to carrion - put your ear close,

and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world.

Laugh.

Laughter is immeasurable.

Be joyful

though you have considered all the facts.

So long as women do not go cheap for power,

please women more than men.

Ask yourself:

will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child?

Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.

Lie down in the shade. Rest your head in her lap.

Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict

the motions of your mind,

lose it.

Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail,

the way you didn't go.

Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary,

some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.

A Guest Entry

2010-04-03T20:41:00.006-04:00

Life has been busy and full lately: I haven't had much time for reading or writing of any sort. Perhaps you've noticed (or not) my lack of recent blogging; my journal has been receiving a similar dearth of ink. Even having someone comment daily on my non-blogging hasn't helped. All of my good intentions - and occasional thoughts of "I should blog about this" - haven't amounted to much. I'll be back here before too long: the writing urge will overcome my tiredness one of these days. But for now, thanks to those who check in every so often just to see if there's anything new. Slowly, slowly, it will come.

And in the meantime, mostly because it amuses me in the grandest sort of way, I thought I'd share a piece written by my youngest sister, Rachel. She recently found a box of old photos and school papers. Sorting through it tonight, she came across an essay she wrote at the beginning of fifth grade. Titled "Pillars in Person," it required her to write about a person who demonstrated the school's six pillars of character: trustworthiness, respect, responsibility, caring, fairness, and citizenship. Our school system enacted the Character Counts program when I was in middle or high school: the thing that I remember best about it is that our book covers contained the same typo for years, "repsonsibility" instead of "responsibility."

But here, dated 1 September 2004, and written in her very best cursive handwriting, is my sister's essay. Clearly she paid a bit more attention to the character pillars than I ever did...

Pillars in Person

My essay is about my older sister Kristina. She is 18 years old and her birthday is in November. She is taking classes at Messiah College in Pennsylvania this year.

Kristina is a very caring person. She often baby-sits my brother Nathan and I to help out my mom. She also forgives people very easily. For exampale [sic] if we keep bugging her while she is trying to do her homework she will say "will you please stop" instead of yelling at us. She shows this in many examples here is one, if we have a homework assignment we do not understand she will help us with it.

Kristina also shows that she is a good citizen by encouraging us that we can do anything we set out to do! She also shows this trait by respecting my mom even when she doesn't like what my mom wants her to do. She also shows this by not littering even if it's very tempting.

Also Kristina shows that she practices the character pillar of trustworthiness by never cheating in card games such as Bridge and Spades. She shows this trait also by never lying about grades or anything else. She never breaks promises, and is usually on time. Kristina is the best example of a person I know showing these character traits.

Today's reflective moment...

2010-03-24T16:13:00.001-04:00

i wish for you

the strength

to let it be,

to simply

live

at peace

with the questions

in your heart.

Quotable Moment.

2010-03-11T07:07:00.000-05:00

"Boys. They're like luxury items."

-From a source who desires not to be named.

Edit: An additional bit of context. The quote above occurred after dinner at my house a few nights ago (mere minutes before I posted it, actually). I cooked that night: spaghetti with homemade sauce, plus salad. Forty five minutes isn't really quite enough time to prepare sauce from scratch (raw vegetables from the pantry and tomatoes we canned last summer); it was a little chunky, but actually quite tasty, if I may say so myself.

But then there was the question of how much spaghetti to cook. I expected a mere seven people around the table (the same number as our family when everyone is home): parents, two sisters, one brother, one boyfriend, and myself. At the time of cooking, only my youngest sister, my boyfriend, and I were present: this may have been a mitigating factor in my slightly conservative decision to cook exactly one pound of spaghetti noodles.

And then, my brother came in from riding bikes and playing basketball with his friends. His hungry demeanor, coupled with the fact that his friends were still hanging around outside, made me second-guess my cooking decision. I knew there would be plenty of sauce, but had I made enough noodles?

My sister and I discussed the matter and decided that there was probably enough, unless his friends came in to eat too. If we added another couple teenage boys to the aforementioned head count, we would have to prepare more food (and set the larger table). What to do?

The boys didn't end up coming in, but mom still decided to throw more spaghetti in a pot when she came in from the garden. We actually had enough with just the first pound; the additional leftovers have made nice lunches for the last couple days.

So where did the opening quote fit into this story? Toward the end. As we cleaned up after supper, the discussion turned to the phenomenon which is the male appetite... and the related costs of keeping a boy around.

morning conversation.

2010-02-26T06:42:00.001-05:00

Brother: Are you packing a lunch, Kristina?

Me: Yes.

Brother: Cool!

Mom: Why's it cool, Nate?

Brother: I don't know. I do it.

Green Loc-Tite: Or, Learning to Be Less Efficient.

2010-02-25T20:45:00.004-05:00

It's almost 9 pm. I'm tired. My feet are reminding me that they still aren't used to being confined in socks and shoes all day. My hands are dry, and there's still grease under my fingernails. Eight hours at work today, most of them in the parts room or shop, and how good it feels to have actually accomplished some really concrete tasks today (and to have marked hours on a timesheet). I must head to bed soon: tomorrow will be an even longer day, particularly if I work in the evening as well. I won't complain though: I like my jobs, and after two weeks of hanging out at home, I'm thankful to have something to keep me busy.

And laughing.

I've worked in the parts room at my dad's shop often enough. In the fall, I was the one to receive and stock each day's inventory; I've pulled and shipped many an order. I did some of that today, too (the shipping, not receiving). While Clarence welcomed me back with the suggestion that I go sweep the roof of the shop (this will likely remain at the bottom of my to do list forever), Dave quickly handed off a few invoices to pack and ship. Including one to Canada - which meant I got to jump right back into not only the regular aspects of shipping, but also customs and commodities declarations! I remembered most of what to do, and he walked me through the rest of it once again.

But the biggest lesson of the day came when Clarence and Kevin and John put me to work pressing bushings and bearings into pulleys. For the non-mechanically inclined among my readers, this basically means that I was inserting small metal pieces into larger metal pieces, which will eventually (tomorrow!) be connected to other pieces to become large mechanical equipment. The pieces fit together very tightly, so I had to use a press. The first batch went fine: two bushings per pulley until I ran out, and then we ordered more.

And because I had done so well, the guys decided I should do some more. But this next batch was a bit different, so we added a couple steps to the process. Now, instead of just setting a bushing into the pulley and using the press to push it in, I would be smearing a bearing with green loc-tite, using the press to push it level with the edge of a (different-shaped) pulley, then using a rod with the press to push it into the middle of the pulley. Trust me, the steps are easy enough when you see them done.

Now, this "green loc-tite" stuff was obviously held in high regard: that much was obvious from the way the guys talked about it. Reading the label, I learned that it was supposed to "augment" the connection between two pieces of metal. But I wasn't told, nor did I quite figure out until (much) later, how it did this. Maybe it should have been obvious from the name; perhaps, in the midst of remembering and learning so much, my brain wasn't functioning at quite it's fullest speed. Regardless, when I began my task, I hadn't yet learned to respect green loc-tite nearly as much as it deserved.

There were three shelves of pulleys, but not nearly enough bearings. For the first group, John had given me 24 bearings, which I was to fit into 24 pulleys. He had demonstrated on one, but I didn't see any reason to do them individually, so I set myself up with a nice little assembly line on the receiving table. I opened 24 boxes, then removed 24 bearings from their plastic wrappers. Wearing gloves - at John's demand - I smeared green loc-tite on each one and paired it with a pulley. Then, I used the press to push each bearing level with the pulley. 24 presses: so far, so good.

But then, disaster struck.

Just as John had, I set the rod in the first bearing and stuck it under the press again. I pulled down, and, nothing. All my strength couldn't budge the bearing any deeper into the pulley. I readjusted the press - a few times - with the same result. I tried a different pulley: still no luck. Thinking there was something wrong with the press, I paged Kevin, the Shop Manager, to the parts room. He couldn't get the press to move the bearing either. But, being far better acquainted with green loc-tite than I, he quickly recognized the problem.

Green loc-tite is like super glue - only superior. It sets fast and solid. To unstick something which has been stuck with green loc-tite apparently requires heating to a very high temperature.

By trying to be more efficient with my assembly line style, I had created a problem on par with the sticking power of green loc-tite. I was horrified. We don't stock cheap parts, and I thought for sure that I had ruined these pulleys and would never be allowed near anything mechanical - or sticky - again.

A couple more guys got involved, mostly laughing at my predicament. Clarence, however, knew how to solve such a problem. Taking one of my super-stuck pulleys and the press rod, he led me out to the shop - and to the hydraulic press. Warning me never to pull the press when my hand was near or under it, he quickly proved its power: this press was more than able to push the bearing solidly into the pulley. I breathed a sigh of relief (maybe a few) and went to fetch my other 23 stuck pulleys.

The story ends happily: I finished the rest of the pulleys (including another 20 or so from each of the other shelves) using the hydraulic press and didn't have any trouble; I learned to respect green loc-tite as much as any of the guys; and the frequent retelling of this story throughout the afternoon to various employees and vendors provided much comic relief.

Moral: Efficiency isn't always a virtue, particularly in the presence of almighty green loc-tite.

colour.

2010-02-21T18:42:00.004-05:00

I went up to my parents' attic earlier this afternoon with two goals in mind: 1) find an old manuscript draft that a theology professor gave me a couple years ago and that I wanted to try reading again, and 2) find my slippers. The former task was simple: I found the manuscript in the third box I opened. The latter, less simple: I'm still wearing the slippers my kid brother loaned me last week.

Unsurprisingly, I came across a few other things, mostly books, that I decided to bring down with me. One of these, a journal from the Theatre for Social Change class I took my senior year, I decided to repurpose for a new project: an art journal. The first half is already fairly artsy: apparently my last semester of college was a creative one!

And now, in an attempt to re-inspire my creative side, the second half will be dedicated to magazine clippings, markers, glue, and my globe-trotting colored pencils. My journal hasn't been getting much ink lately, so maybe this will also be an outlet for those things which aren't getting written - or a spark which compels me to pick up my pen.

For those who are interested, here was the beginning attempt...

Random Connections.

2010-02-20T17:05:00.000-05:00

It's funny sometimes the people you run into when you're least expecting it.

Earlier this week, I spent an afternoon hanging out in the Commons at EMU. It was "Calling and Career Day," and I was helping Luke represent MCC at the job/service fair. I took a few copies of my resume along. Given that I'm not really looking for an unpaid summer internship or a short term mission trip, I didn't have any luck finding a job. I did get to talk to lots of students about SALT and other MCC service opportunities, however, something which I really enjoyed.

It felt a bit surreal at times: stepping out of the present, I would reflect back a few years when I was the one stopping by the service fair recruiting tables. How experienced and put-together and cultured the seasoned travelers and service workers seemed then!

The afternoon brought many strange encounters, (re)connections with people I never expected to meet. Here are a few such tales...

I was idling by the registration table while I waited for Luke to show up with the stuff to set up our table. A very outgoing woman came over and start chatting with me, offering to show me where our table would be while I waited for "Michelle" (not sure who she was thinking of, but it was just Luke and I representing MCC...). As we walked around the indoor track where the fair was taking place, I learned that she was representing Eastern Mennonite Missions, and that she works in the Lancaster office. "Oh, that's interesting. I have a friend who was applying for a position there a couple weeks ago." She asked for my friend's name, then informed me that she had gotten the job. In fact, this woman told me, she was the one who had trained my friend at orientation earlier in the week (turns out this wasn't true: my friend starts orientation next week). Random.

After we set up the table, Luke and I went to get lunch. Taking sandwiches (shame on EMU for not having any veg. options!), we went to sit with some other recruiters. Introductions went around the table, then conversations continued. I started talking to the girl beside me, who was representing SWAP. She looked a bit familiar, but I didn't have any idea why. Until she complimented the beads in my hair and asked if they were from Uganda. "I was just there a few months ago for a SWAP project with a Methodist church in Gulu," she told me. Oh, of course. She was part of the group that wandered into the MCC office in Kampala right after I returned to Uganda. We had chatted a bit while her group leader got incredibly excited to take photos of the actual MCC Uganda office. Interesting that we would both just happen to accompany official recruiters to this same event.

I took a break after an hour or so and wandered around the tables myself. After turning down a few invitations to sign up for a summer missions trip, I stopped at a display for a local ministry that provides tutoring and other services for immigrants. The guy at the table had listened to my spiel about SALT earlier, so I returned the favor and let him tell me about his work (he spends a few hours a week helping immigrants fill out legal documents). He asked if I was from the area, then where I had gone to high school. Turns out he attended the same high school, albeit a few years behind me. "Do you have a sister there?" he asked me. Before long, he informed me that my middle sister was a friend of his, and he had sung in choir with her for a few years. Well, okay then.

I didn't intend to stop at the table for the Korean Anabaptist Center, but the elderly gentleman staffing it caught my eye and started asking me questions. As I answered his questions about who I am and what I was doing there, I watched the photo slideshow with my peripheral vision. Suddenly, I saw a familiar face. "Hey, I know them!" pointing to friends from my last MCC orientation who just moved to South Sudan this month. I knew my friends had taught English in Korea, but I wouldn't have guessed that this was the organization they worked for - or that these two recruiters would happen to know them well. So, we spent a few minutes chatting about these friends - who I know in connection with MCC Africa and these people knew from Korea. It's a small world after all.

Still amazed by the day's connections, I went back to our table. I found Luke deep in conversation with a guy who looked vaguely familiar. Looking at both his face and his name tag, however, I couldn't figure out why. I was talking to someone else when he finished his conversation with Luke, so I didn't get a chance to say anything to him. A few minutes later, this familiar-looking stranger came back. "Were you in Nairobi in December 2008?" he asked me. "Oh, yes." Now I recognized him as one of the EMM Yes participants who had been at the EMM/MCC East Africa retreat mid-way through my SALT term. More than a year later, I was meeting him again as a first year student at EMU. Who would have ever guessed?

I've heard it said that everyone in the world is connected to everyone else by no more than six degrees of separation. In the Mennonite world, however, I'm not sure it isn't less than that!

Well, that's a new one.

2010-02-18T15:59:00.003-05:00

*Disclaimer: I neither use nor endorse the following service.*

I occasionally get a spam message on skype. Not often enough for this to raise concerns, but just every once in awhile. I have no idea how I am chosen, but these spam messages have invited me to do a variety of things, from sending money to an unknown recipient to soliciting information about some new exciting technology. Today's message was a little different - well, it was unlike any I've ever received before. Reading it caused me to shake my head, "Really? Well, that's a new one." I won't be visiting (or sharing) the link they sent, but I thought some of my readers might also be amused by this message.

*Disclaimer: I neither use nor endorse the following service.*

"There are thousands of unhappy married women and men in every city, but they DO NOT want to leave their spouse. They want to stay married, but they want to have an affair without ever being caught. Our dating community is extremely popular!

Having an affair can be stressful because you never know if the other person involved is going to get attached to you. You just want to have an intimate encounter and nothing else.

A great thing about this Discreet Dating Community For Married People is that there is no cost to join. You can check it out, see if you like it, and then begin contacting married people for secret intimate encounters.

Press here if you want to have an affair with a married person:

[deleted link]"

*Disclaimer: I neither use nor endorse the above service.*

Safety Precautions.

2010-02-18T09:22:00.006-05:00

In her novel, Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver relates the tale of a Southern Baptist missionary to the Congo in 1959 through the eyes of his four daughters. Early in the story, Leah recounts the difficulties they faced in determining what to pack: latrine spade or hand mirror, aspirin tablets or canned ham, and of course, powdered cake mix. Their plans were complicated, however, by the luggage restrictions enforced by the airline that was to fly them across the Atlantic.

"Getting here with even the bare minimum was a trial. Just when we considered ourselves fully prepared and were fixing to depart, lo and behold, we learned that the Pan American Airline would only allow forty-four pounds to be carried across the ocean. Forty-four pounds of luggage per person, and not one iota more. Why, we were dismayed by this bad news!" (14)

After weeding out some less-essential essentials, like the eldest daughter's beloved toiletries, their luggage was still overweight, not surprising since, as Leah put it, they carried the "full measure of civilization's evils" they would have access to during the one year mission (14). Eventually, however, with some hints from the Mission League, they stumble upon this creative solution:

"Through an oversight (or else probably, if you think about it, just plain politeness), they don't weigh the passengers. ... We struck out for Africa carrying all our excess baggage on our bodies, under our clothes. Also, we had clothes under our clothes. My sisters and I left home wearing six pairs of underdrawers, two half-slips and camisoles; several dresses one on top of the other, with pedal pushers underneath; and outside of everything an all-weather coat. ... The other goods, tools, cake-mix boxes and so forth were tucked out of sight in our pockets and under our waist-bands, surrounding us in a clanking armor. We wore our best dresses on the outside to make a good impression." (15)

----

The above passage came to my mind a week and a half ago as I waited for my flight from London to Philadelphia. It was Sunday morning, more than 24 hours after I landed at Heathrow International Airport. After two cancelled flights, sight-seeing with a good friend, and a night spent fighting jet lag in my complimentary hotel room, I was tired of traveling. According to the Departures board, my flight was still on, and I had rechecked my luggage.

When I reached the Security check-in, the officer read my ticket before eying my backpack and carry-on bag. She then informed me that new regulations forbid more than one piece of hand luggage on flights bound for the US. Never mind that all their signs still stated that travelers could carry one smaller piece of luggage plus a briefcase/laptop bag/etc. Granted, my backpack was a bit fuller than necessary for just a laptop, but that wasn't what she was taking issue with: "Ma'am, you need to either put everything into one bag, or check another piece of luggage."

Now, remember that I hadn't slept more than 8 hours in the past 50, I had already stood in three long lines this morning, and the deathly cold had settled into my bones: I was a bit snappish in response to this woman, demanding that she return my passport and ticket so I could go away and think a bit, then suggesting that they publicize such new restrictions more widely.

I found a seat and spent a few minutes contemplating my best course of action (despite the coffee I'd had earlier, my mind wasn't working too quickly at this point). My carry-on actually wasn't too full: mostly winter clothes in case my luggage didn't arrive at the same time as I did; I'd already removed a couple kilos of mangoes as a gift to my friend the previous day. My backpack held my laptop, a few books (I've learned never to put in my luggage anything that I can't stand to live without), my favorite blanket, and my travel documents - but there was no way I could just stuff it inside the other bag.

My eventual solution was like that of the Prices in Kingsolver's novel, though I didn't have any cake mixes to worry about. Grateful for bathroom stalls as large as most walk-in closets, I sorted through the clothes in my carry-on. I was already wearing undergarments, tank top, button-up shirt, sweater, jeans, belt, socks, sneakers, coat, scarf, and quite a bit of jewelry. I added the two shirts I had been wearing the previous day, a skirt, a second pair of socks, and a second scarf, tying my hoodie around my waist like a third grader. Into the pockets of my coat went my travel documents, passport, money, ipod, hat, gloves, and zip-loc bag with lotion, toothpaste, etc. Everything else, backpack and laptop included, got stuffed into my carry-on bag, and I traipsed back to Security.

After getting past the officer at the first desk, I then stood in line to go through the metal detectors. At the front, I piled into the bins: laptop, coat, ziploc bag, hoodie, shoes, belt, and carry-on bag. Waiting to bundle up again on the other side, my anxiety spiked again when the officers pulled my zip-loc bag out of the bin and started checking the things inside it. "Pardon me, is there a problem?" I asked as they opened the bottle of cough syrup that I was using to fight a 2-day-old cold. No problem, they just wanted to "test" it.

Two hours later, waiting in line to get my bag hand-searched and my body patted down so I could enter the gate, I learned the reasons for these new precautions from other passengers: America was still on super-alert since the last plane bombing attempt. Personally, though, as I stretched out my arms for yet another officer to ensure that I wasn't packing explosives, I didn't really feel any safer.

I just felt tired. And annoyed.

The Thing About Friends.

2010-02-16T12:29:00.002-05:00

I have a lot of good friends. On multiple continents. In various time zones. Friends that I chat with online every day. Childhood friends whose blogs I recently discovered. Friends whose genes distinctly resemble my own. Friends who laugh at my strange accents and linguistic passions. Friends who teach me their native languages. Friends who remember when I used to mismatch my clothes intentionally. Friends who stay up late in uncomfortable social situations with me. Friends who send me texts that only we could understand. Friends who've seen me cry. Friends who can make me laugh by raising a single eyebrow.

Friends, friends, friends.

At a time like this - when so much of my life is once again in transition - I am ever so aware - and deeply appreciative - for all of my friends. So, to those of you I've talked to recently, as well as those I haven't, just know that I love you and am extremely grateful for your presence in my life.

And for moments like this one, when I'm working on an essay (well, "letter of intent" in this case), reading through edits, and have to contain my laughter in the middle of the library:

"They’d be morons not to accept an extremely qualified person like you!"

Motion Sickness.

2010-02-16T10:21:00.002-05:00

mo.tion sick.ness

noun

nausea caused by motion, esp. by traveling in a vehicle(ref: Apple Dictionary).

It caught me by surprise again.
I arrived in the US on Sunday afternoon, but it was Philadelphia, so we used public transportation: train, subway, feet. My first car ride came on Monday morning, when an MCC volunteer met me at the train station to drive me to the Akron office. I was suffering from severe jet lag; I chalked my ill feelings up to the exhaustion - and to the slightly nervous feelings I got when he turned the wrong way down a one way street in Lancaster City.. Later, on the way to and from lunch, I thought, "too much coffee on an empty stomach." And, the jet lag that made me feel like I had just pulled an all-nighter - or two. No wonder my system felt a little out of sync.
It was later that same evening, riding in my sister's car, headed to her house where I would spend the week, that I realized what was happening. Maybe because it was a longer car ride. And I had been feeling perfectly fine until we started moving (I regulated my caffeine to water ratio better after lunch). The symptoms were more pronounced: my body just felt off-kilter. Headache, nausea, clamminess. The air felt too hot, too artificial.
My body was reacting as it used to the few times I made the mistake of riding a roller coaster - but the roads we were driving were perfectly smooth, mostly straight. The car barely swayed. Certainly a more pleasant experience than riding on Ugandan roads, where I always came away counting my bruises.
But therein lies the problem. For whatever reason, my body adjusts quite quickly to Ugandan transport. After hours on a bus, I usually felt stiff, bruised, and parched, but never once do I recall suffering from motion sickness. That's a problem my body saves for straight, smooth roads and vehicles with well-maintained shocks. When riding on "good" roads recalls the off-roading some of my guy friends loved in high school, I feel perfectly healthy - afraid for my life at moments, but never nauseated. But bring me back to the developed world, to such subtle swaying, and it can be torture to ride for just a few minutes.
At least there's this hope to hang on to: when I came back in the summer, I eventually adapted again, and the motion sickness reserved itself for more dramatic twists and curves. Assumedly, the same will happen this time. Fresh cold air also helps - and Virginia seems to have plenty of that these days.

Superlative Intimidation.

2010-02-12T16:39:00.005-05:00

As part of my quest for employment, preferably in the education sector, I've been working on an application for Teach for America this week. A two year Americorps program, TFA is an alternative certification program for teachers who commit to working with underserved populations, particularly in urban or rural areas on the lower end of the achievement gap. Given that I really enjoy teaching, but have neither teacher certification nor a degree in education, this kind of program seems like a good option for me. So, in the midst of adjusting to the cold North American climate and catching up with old friends, I've been working on this application (necessary since it's due next week!).

Most of it has been fairly straight-forward: questions about my academic and work experience, a required letter of intent including why I want to join TFA, etc. One set of questions, found on the "Academic Information" page, caught me off-guard yesterday, in part because of the superlative used in the first line.

What is the longest amount of time you have ever spent pursuing a goal or interest or refining a skill?
What was that goal/interest/skill?
Are you still involved in this pursuit?

As you contemplate how you might answer these questions, bear in mind that this is not an essay prompt. The first question offers a drop down menu: less than one year, 1-2 years, 2-4 years, 4-6 years, more than 6 years. The second has a short answer line. The third, another drop down: yes, no, occasionally.

And remember, they're not asking you to highlight the goal/interest/skill that is most important to you or even focusing on that goal/interest/skill; the first question, and thus, seemingly, the most important piece of information, asks for the longest amount of time you've ever spent pursuing it. "Longest." A superlative, denoting the highest possible degree.

I couldn't answer this question immediately. In the hours I spent considering it, quite a few options passed through my mind. Two of my top considerations were basketball and my bachelors degree. But still, I wasn't sure if either of those was the short answer goal/interest/skill I wanted to highlight on my teaching application.

Finally, with the help of my boyfriend - who had no such difficulties identifying what goal/interest/skill he'd pursued the longest - I found the goal/interest/skill that I probably have pursued the longest in my life, and which also reflects well on my personal interests.

My final answers:

More than six years.
Language learning.
Yes.

Feel free to comment with your own response to this intimidating superlative question...

just what i needed.

2010-02-12T16:17:00.005-05:00

Each of my sisters keeps a quote book: a journal in which she records quotes and sayings which challenge or inspire her. I don't have one of my own, though if I ever give you leave to riffle through the pages of my numerous journals, you will find a plethora of quotes, both short and longer. Today, my darling middle sister loaned me her quote book to read, pointing out that the first passage is from a letter I wrote to her last year (can I put that - "I'm quotable" - on my resume?). As is inevitably the case when reading a volume of quotes (or poetry), some of the lines jumped out at me, seeming to be just what my heart needed to hear today, even though I had heard/read many of them before. Here, I share with you a few of these.

"Be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,

no less than the trees and the stars.

In the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul."

- Max Ehrmann

"I beg you... to have patience

with everything unresolved in your heart

and try to love the questions themselves

as if they were locked rooms or

books written in a very foreign language.

Don't search for the answers,

which could not be given to you now,

because you would not be able to live them.

And the point is, to live everything.

Live the questions now.

Perhaps then, someday far in the future,

you will gradually, without even noticing it,

live your way into the

answer."

- Rainer Maria Rilke

"Walk in the rain,

smell flowers,

stop along the way,

build sandcastles,

go on field trips,

find out how things work,

tell stories,

say the magic words,

trust the universe."

- Bruce Williamson

"Be who you are and say what you feel,

because those who mind don't matter

and those who matter don't mind."

- Dr. Seuss

"Courage does not always roar.

Sometimes

courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day

saying, 'I will try again tomorrow.'"

- Mary Anne Radmacher

"Some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Life is about not knowing, having to change,

taking the moment and making the best of it,

without knowing what's going to happen next.

Delicious ambiguity."

- Gilda Radner

SNOW!!!!

2010-02-09T15:47:00.002-05:00

As I write, I'm in central Pennsylvania, sitting around a table in the library of my alma mater with a couple friends. We're in the basement, near the windows, where we'd normally have a perfect view of an employee parking lot.

But today, I can't see any cars. They're hidden from sight by the 6 foot (literally) hill of snow piled up outside the window. An adult standing on the other side of this machine-enhanced snowdrift would be just as hidden. Six feet: it's a wall of snow!

And more is coming. The forecast for this area predicts another foot or so tonight... starting about thirty minutes ago. This will be the third severe, more than a foot of snow, storm to hit the region in the past two weeks. But, oh, how beautiful the fluffy flakes look as they float down from the gray sky!

I'm sure I loved snow as a young child. There are numerous photographs of me playing in the snow: sledding, building snowmen, and just generally enjoying it. As I grew older, I appreciated snow more for its ability to get me out of school and work. I still played in the snow, and I can remember one especially epic snowball fight during little sibs weekend of my sophomore year, but generally, I tried to stay inside and warm.

Today, it's been absolutely thrilling to walk in the cold air that smells of snow (all bundled up in warm clothes, of course). I took off my gloves to grab a handful, delighting in its frozen wonder: it appears so solid, but crumbles into powder when I close my hands around it. It's good packing snow: I marveled for awhile at the almost-ice ball that stung my fingers. My sister and friends keep shying away when I head toward the drifts; they, having seen such for weeks, don't understand my profound excitement just to grasp it in my hands.

I'm not generally a fan of cold weather, and I've already had some moments in the past few days of feeling chilled to the bone. Today, though, wearing a fleece and coat and gloves and scarf and shoes with thick socks, on an afternoon that the locals described as "warm," I touched snow for the first time in two years. For the past few hours, every time I pass a window or thrust my bare hand into a snow drift, a huge smile has lit up my face. I probably haven't been this excited for snow in 15 or 20 years, but gosh, it's a grand time!

And on that note, I'm leaving the library and heading back into the open air, where I can feel the snowflakes on my face and I don't have to contain my excitement.

Let it snow!

cold enough to see my breath.

2010-02-06T16:08:00.004-05:00

it has been almost exactly twenty four hours since i boarded british airways flight 062 last night, from entebbe (uganda) to heathrow (london, uk). if everything had gone as planned, i'd be in philadelphia right now: passport stamped, customs cleared, and on the train to my boyfriend's flat. instead, i'm typing from an airport hotel room in london.

my flight from entebbe was uneventful. i had a great seat: aisle, bulkhead row, so lots of leg room. i usually can't sleep on planes, but last night, i actually managed to get a few hours of good, solid sleep. not the equivalent of a full night's rest, but much better than normal (which is surely the only reason why i'm still awake now). we got into london in good time without any trouble. unlike the eastern us, the weather here was quite decent: overcast and cold, but above freezing and without precipitation.

i went through customs and border control because i had plans to meet a good friend who currently lives in london for coffee in the terminal. before she arrived, i went to pick up my boarding pass for my connecting flight to philadelphia. the british airways clerk was surprised: "but, didn't they contact you to tell you that this flight has been cancelled and you need to rebook?" then he noticed that i didn't have a contact number listed on my eticket, and i explained that i had been travelling from uganda anyway. he was quite helpful: booked me a seat on the later flight to philadelphia and even upgraded me to the section above economy rather than leave me on standby. i walked away with a boarding pass, two five pound food vouchers, and a ten hour layover in london.

when my friend reached the terminal, we had coffee as planned. i gave her the mangoes i had brought from southern uganda, and we discussed what to do with the day in light of my extended layover. we ended up riding the subway into town and spent the mid-day hours wandering the "must see" parts of london and warming ourselves in cozy cafes. it was a lot of fun, and a great chance to catch up. later, as we rode the subway back toward the airport, she remarked that i was the first person aside from her husband whom she'd ever hung out with on three different continents. aside from people i've been directly travelling with, she's also the first person i've ever visited on three different continents either (africa, europe, north america). but, given that this was the first time i'd ever actually gone through customs in europe, this isn't such a surprise.

on our way back to the airport, we used heathrow's text message system to check the status of my flight: ba 069 to philadelphia was on time and scheduled to take off at 17:05 local time. back at the airport, i went through security, then had my carry on luggage searched two more times and was patted down before i finally reached the departure gate - the tightest security measures always seem to be for us-bound flights.

when it was time to board, i joined the long queue: given the earlier cancellation, it was obvious that this flight was going to be quite full. reaching the attendant at the desk, i was worried by the frown on his face when he scanned my boarding pass. "is there a problem, sir?" "yes," he responded, "but i think it's one you're going to like." the flight was overbooked, so i was once again upgraded, this time to a business class seat. i'm used to travelling economy class: i had no idea what to expect from a seat in row 13.

entering the plane, i was shocked: business class seats have their own cubicle sections, seats which fully recline (to a horizontal position, although i'm too tall for this to be very comfortable), footstools, drawers, and even outlets for using laptop computers. this was the most space i'd ever had on a plane: as the guys beside me (who, like more than half the other passengers in the section, had also been upgraded at the last moment) figured out, each of our seats took the space equivalent to 3-4 economy seats. whoa! shortly after we boarded the plane, the flight attendants came through our section with local newspapers, champagne, and menus detailing the options for the multi-course meal that would be served after take-off.

we settled in... to wait. when everyone had boarded (which didn't take very long, as we were all anxious to be on our way), the pilot came on the address system and informed us that we were still waiting for clearance to take off. no flights were allowed in or out of philadelphia at the time because of the severe weather hitting the eastern seaboard, but our pilot was optimistic that it would clear by the time we would reach and that we might still be allowed to go. but alas, it was not to be. an hour later, the pilot informed us that this flight was also being cancelled. we were to disembark, claim our luggage, proceed through customs, and then visit the departure desk to rebook.

exhausted and sad to leave my nice seat (which i didn't think to photograph!), i joined the flow of people leaving the plane, wondering if my bags were really going to come around on the carousel (they had also been shifted when i earlier rebooked my flight). they did come, and i reached the departure desk earlier than many others, but still waited quite a while before speaking to a clerk. "you've been rebooked on the morning flight to philadelphia tomorrow," she informed me, "and we'll give you a hotel voucher for tonight." within ten minutes, i had the necessary paperwork: new ticket, hotel voucher, and voucher for the bus to the hotel.

standing with the rest of the group waiting for the bus, i was absolutely shocked by how cold it had become since the sun went down. for the first time in quite a long while, i was shivering enough for my teeth to chatter, and i could see my breath hanging on the air. it might take me some time to readjust to this cold climate.

but, i didn't freeze to death, and the bus did come. my hotel is nice - very nice. i have a room on the second floor: i'm a bit in awe of the huge soft bed and super hot shower. i turned on the heat, made tea with an electric kettle i found in the cupboard, and set the alarm clock for morning, uk time. i was shocked to notice the price of the room on the back of the door, even more so when a friend told me that most airlines refused to give hotel rooms to people whose flights were cancelled by the weather today. guess i'll add this to my list of reasons why i really like british air.

now, i'm going to drink my tea and curl up in the warmth of my bed. in the morning, i'll ride the shuttle bus back to the airport. hopefully, my flight will actually be on time, take off, and eventually reach philadelphia tomorrow.

after all, don't they always say, third time's the charm?

seeing the world.

2010-02-06T15:12:00.000-05:00

04.02.10.

Just now, I was browsing through all my photos from the last year and a half, looking for any which MCC might want to use for the office bulletin board or the updated brochure that my friend is working on. I tagged 25 and ended up printing five... out of thousands. There are over 30 gigabytes of video and images stored on my hard drive, most of which are from the last year in Uganda (and also, most of which are backed up on discs; maybe I should back up the rest as well?).

Shortly after I finished this project, I was reading the blog of a friend I've known (though recently, not so well) since first grade. A talented photographer, she nevertheless expresses doubt over the worth of her images... and openly admits her struggle to think highly of her photography without the validation and praise of others.

Aside from the fact that I love the way she sees - and captures - the world, her post resonated with the way I think about my writing. I write mostly for myself, but, like anyone, I always feel a bit better about my writing - and my self - when others praise it. Which is why it bothers me a bit when there are no comments on my blog. But that's a tangent for another day.

Flicking (virtually, of course) through my photos, I rediscovered some images that I really love. Moments and memories and fleeting thoughts captured on (digital) film. Reading my friend's blog has inspired me to share a few of them with you (assuming the internet connection holds up) - not to seek your praise, but instead, to invite you, for a few moments, to see the world through my eyes (or lens).

...........

dusk at lake bunyonyi.

hibiscus flower.

st. monica's day care centre.

mango season in atiak.

rachel marie.

the sibs.

so many things you can do with those tiles.

aren't we cool?

colours.

water.equals.life.

chemistry, much?

blitz.

skip-bo master.

chicago. see how straight those lines are?

happy 15th.

so many memories.

cute cami.

processing, with ink.

shadiah ne pinto.

windmill, kotido.

friends.

i have this thing about photo-ing my foot.

party time with patu.

boys.

this is friendship.

beautiful sky.

fruit drying.

foot, yes?

the beauty of desire.

family, southern hemisphere.

college chocolate.

inshallah.

2010-02-05T08:37:00.006-05:00

Itinerary, as currently planned:

4 hours from now:

riding in a special hire taxi from Kampala to Entebbe.

6 hours from now:

checking in at Entebbe Airport.

8 hours from now:

sitting in a plane as it departs from Entebbe enroute to London.

17 hours from now:

arriving at Heathrow Airport.

19 hours from now:

sipping coffee with a very dear friend who happens to be living in London.

22 hours from now:

sitting in a plane as it departs from Heathrow enroute to Philadelphia.

30 hours from now:

arriving at Philadelphia International Airport.

31 hours from now:

attempting to adjust to the deathly cold and snow.

But then again, this might throw a kink into the plans...

regardless, i'll get there eventually...

Telling Stories.

2010-02-05T08:13:00.004-05:00

"Story-telling is dependent on memory,

and is itself a way of remembering essential

to being and remaining human.

That is why we keep diaries

and treasure photographs of significant moments

that document the stages on our life's journey,

bringing into focus people we love and respect,

and recalling them in ways that help us savour the past in the present.

That is why remembering the past rightly by a nation

in search of a better future

is so fundamental,

and why the suppression of such memories is so dangerous.

Stories evoke hope, whether personal or communal,

without which we cannot be truly human.

Thus story-telling links memory and expectation

in a way that helps make sense

of the present."

--John W. de Gruchy, Confessions of a Christian Humanist, p. 7.

To Think On.

2010-01-28T10:28:00.001-05:00

I share with you a poem I recently read, from the book, "Sharing Boundaries: Learning the Wisdom of Africa," by Annetta Miller.

Peace.

Every year
my husband and I
plant several trees
on a Kikuyu friend's farm
outside Nairobi

The first trees
we planted are now
over thirty feet tall

This year
I looked over into the farm
adjoining our friend's
land

A neat row of young trees
was spreading its branches

"Yes," he said,
"your tree planting
is contagious

But I gave my neighbor
the first trees to plant

If I hadn't done that
he would be very jealous of my trees

This way
there is
no jealousy
and there is
peace"

Change in Plans.

2010-01-28T10:09:00.000-05:00

This is a hard blog to write about a hard decision to make. Titling it was difficult too: I don't mean to seem trite. So perhaps the best thing is simply to say it.

Within the next few weeks, I will be returning to the US. For reasons I won't try to explain here, I have decided not to fulfill my contract with MCC. This decision in no way reflects any negative experience with MCC, St. Monica's, or anyone I've met here. I have many wonderful friends here, but my heart is calling me elsewhere and to focus on other relationships at this point. It will be difficult to once again bid farewell to Uganda, but I believe this is the right choice for me right now.

I still highly value the work that St. Monica's does, as well as the role that MCC plays in partnering with organisations in this country. I have been told that MCC will look for another volunteer to take on this assignment, and I strongly hope that person is able to give their whole heart to this work.

And where am I headed? For now, north and west, towards a much colder climate, an uncertain future, and hopefully, a peaceful heart.

Travel Adventures.

2010-01-28T09:53:00.000-05:00

Four of the last six days I've spent at least partly on the road: a weekend in Kampala to celebrate the graduation party of a friend of mine who grew up in the care of the Sisters, and the last couple days with my host family in Atiak. Half the journeys have been straightforward and uneventful; the other two, a bit more interesting. So, for your entertainment, I present a (long-ish) travelougue:

Saturday, 23rd January, Gulu - Kampala.

Along with a few of the Sisters and Father Luigi (a Camboni priest from Italy who has called Uganda home for the past decades), I was headed to Kampala to celebrate my friend Rosemary's graduation. Her party was the next afternoon, so we wanted to reach in time and spend the night at a convent located in Ggaba, on the southern side of the city. We planned to leave at 9 am, as we informed Father Luigi at breakfast (he came by to make sure we were still on schedule).

So, at nine, we packed everything we needed into the car (including the cake we had made the day before for Rosemary), climbed in ourselves, along with a nun from another order who was visiting us and had asked for a ride back south. Walter, one of our drivers, started up the vehicle, and we set out to pick up Father. Before we got to his place, Sister Christine remembered that we were supposed to bring along a canister to refill with cooking gas in the capital. We turned around, got teased for having come back so soon, and set out again with the canister. This time, we picked up Father and started driving south, out of town, on our way to Kampala.

I dozed off and on as we drove, packed in the car and holding a box with a beautiful cake in our laps, but I woke up when the vehicle came to a stop. We were in Bobi, about an hour south of Gulu, and the vehicle was overheating. When Walter pulled the vehicle over, smoke poured from under the hood, and we climbed out. We spent the next thirty minutes baking in the heat as Walter and Father Luigi alternated between pouring water into the empty radiator, watching the water spurt back out in a boiling geyser, calling Geoffrey, the other driver, and just contemplating our options.

Eventually, Father decided that the vehicle wasn't going to make it all the way to Kampala, but the engine seemed to have cooled enough for us to make it back to Gulu. So, he instructed Walter to drive us back to Gulu and drop us off at the bus park, where we would catch a bus to Kampala instead.

Reached the park, we climbed into a bus - I can't even remember which one - and settled ourselves into seats. The three Sisters I knew chose to sit together, and I helped them settled the cake onto their laps. Father sat behind them, and I took the seat in front, accompanied by the visiting Sister. After about an hour, which isn't actually a very long wait, the bus set off. Somehow, Sister and I ended up with an empty space between us, even though the conductors usually seem to like the buses completely full for this route.

Shortly after we crossed the Nile, pouring with all its glory, a new passenger came and sat between us (on Ugandan public transportation, it's all too common for people to enter and exit the bus at random sports all along the way). A small woman, she nevertheless made her presence known, sitting as close to me as physically possible and fiddling with her dress the rest of the way south. She also had quite an argument with the conductor about the price, which would have made more sense to me if he was overcharging her (I've had the conversation many a time myself). Eventually, she handed over her money - but never stopped playing with her dress, keeping her elbow dangerously close to my face. I spent the next few hours fending off her roaming arms (seriously, this woman was as still as most three year old would be in such a situation) and pretending to sleep as I listened to my ipod. We bumped over countless speed humps; my back and tailbone were quite sore by the time we reached... All in all, it was not an atypical bus ride, and we were reaching Kampala after five or six hours.

Suddenly, Father came up beside me and tapped me on the shoulder, "Christine, we're getting out soon." I was surprised; I thought we were going to Ggaba, but we were only at the northern edge of Kampala; I didn't really know what was going on. He was intently looking out the windows, trying to pinpoint the exact location where we wanted to get off. Before long, he moved forward to tell the conductor to "stage," i.e. to stop the bus and let us off. And, in typical Ugandan fashion, the bus pulled to the side of the road, creating a traffic jam behind us, and our party climbed out.

It was only when our driver reached out to take the cake from my hands that I started to realise what was going on. Walter had driven the car to the garage, got it checked, let the engine cool down, and added water. It would still need to go to the garage this week, but he had managed to drive it down to Kampala, passing us somewhere along the way. He had stopped here to wait for us.

Eight hours after we had first set out, we once again piled into the vehicle. We spent the next couple hours driving around and doing errands in Kampala: first taking the cake to the house of one of Rosemary's adopted mothers, a member of Parliament from West Nile; dropping Father off at Our Lady of Africa; and finally reaching our place, after a few wrong turns, right as night fell.

We ate supper, laughing with the Sisters about our unprogrammed journey, and settled into the beds they had prepared for us, all glad to have finally reached.

Monday, 25th January, Kampala - Gulu.

After a late night at Rosemary's beautiful graduation party, we had planned to head back to Gulu on Monday. I woke up that morning, showered, and took my tea as the Sisters were finishing their daily prayers. When the Sisters from Gulu came to the dining room, we exchanged morning pleasantries, and I asked what plans had been made for our departure. It was then I learned that Walter had taken the car to the shop, to get the radiator fixed and to check the gears. They were waiting for the vehicle to be repaired before heading back to Gulu, probably on Tuesday or Wednesday.

I had already made plans to travel to Atiak the next morning, so I insisted on travelling that day, even though I knew the Sisters might (possibly, in the best of circumstances) head north to Gulu that very day. So, I set out: backpack strapped on, I walked to the main road and caught a boda (motorcycle taxi) to the bus park. I climbed on a bus to Gulu, paid my twenty thousand shillings (the standard fare), and set myself down with my ipod and book. Five and a half hours later, finished with my book and having marveled once again at the grand power of the Nile, we reached Gulu. Just a normal bus ride.

Tuesday, 26th January, Gulu - Atiak.

It takes about two hours to reach Atiak on a road heavily travelled by buses and lorries; I had only ever moved with the vehicles of the school before. This day, however, those vehicles and our drivers were not around, so I was going to move to Atiak by bus.

The Sisters told me I should head to the bus stage around 10 am to catch one of the buses from Kampala on its way to Moyo or Adjumani. There were no bodas near our gate, so I walked to the petrol station where the Zawadi buses stage. When I asked for a ticket up to Atiak, expecting to hand over seven thousand shillings, the man informed me that the buses were full.

I was in luck, though, he told me: another northbound bus was loading just up the road. He pointed out the tree where the bus had staged, warned me that it was just about to pull out, and told me that this boda right here would take me to the bus for "only five hundred shillings." 500/= to travel less than a city block: I laughed in his face and started walking, accompanied by a woman and her two children. We reached the bus, climbed on, paid our fares (she was riding all the way to Adjumani), and waited a bit. So much for the bus leaving so fast that I'd need to take a boda!

The only empty seats were in the back, and I covered mine with my lesu (cotton wrap) because there was so much dust. Two hours later, covered in dust and totally parched, I told the conductor to stop at the Atiak stage, and I climbed down. I walked down the road to my brother's shop, accompanied by a young cousin who was walking home with his bicycle. Stepping through the back door of my brother's lodge, I was sighted by my sisters, who ran to hug me.

I was home, in Atiak. Another normal bus ride.

Thursday, 28th January, Atiak-Gulu.

This morning, wanting to return to Gulu, I packed up my things and took tea with my host family. The buses from Adjumani and Moyo normally come through around 9, so after tea, we grabbed my things and went out to the road. Quite a little parade we made: siblings and cousins carrying the bucket, backpack, and box I needed to bring back to Gulu. Reaching the road, they set my things down and we waited for a bus to come by. Despite our nearness to the bus stage, we stayed where we were, knowing that any bus had to pass us too.

When the first bus came by, I said my goodbyes quickly and my brothers flagged it down. It was full, and I declined the conductor's offer to stand all the way to Gulu. The second bus didn't even bother to stop, the driver knocking his hands together in the signal that indicates a full vehicle. The third one stopped, but there were already people standing, and I once again declined to reach Gulu in such a fashion. "It's because school is starting Monday," my brother informed me, "all the children are going back. The buses will be too full for this week."

And so, still unsure how I was going to reach Gulu, I continued to wait by the road. At this point, most of the family had gone back to our compound, but one brother continued to wait with me. A lorry came through, hurtling down the road from Sudan. We didn't even try to flag it down: the back was closed, and he already had a passenger in the front seat. But suddenly, we saw it stop just up the road, and the passenger climbed down. Before he could drive away, the men sitting in front of their shops called to me, "You come, this is a good vehicle too."

So, I came, handing up my things and climbing to the seat located above my head. I was a bit wary of the arrangement, not entirely sure I wanted to spend two hours on a bad road with a man I didn't know. But, it seemed the best option I had to reach Gulu today, so I went with it.

I waved goodbye to my brother and the helpful shopkeepers, then exchanged greetings with the driver in broken English. Before long, I had confirmed that I'm from America and had learnt that he was a native Ugandan from the south. "Oli muganda?" I queried. "Yee. Omanyi Luganda?" We both started laughing as we realised that despite his limited English, and my almost nonexistent Acoli, we shared in common his native language.

We spent the next half hour discussing our ages (he guessed me at 25, maybe the closest blind guess ever in this country), politics (he loves Obama but speaks far less highly of his own president), the terrible status of the road (oh yes, I'm acculturated: contemplating how "good" a portion of road is, I glance down and see bare rock protruding between the sandy dust), and the climate (he told me Sudan is TOO HOT, and I tried to explain why bananas don't grow in my part of the US). After a bit, we stopped talking, occasionally sipped from our water bottles, and mostly just bumped our way down the road. We stopped in Pabo for him to buy rice: for some reason, it's cheaper there than Juba, Kampala, or anywhere in between, and I've become accustomed to this stop.

Reaching the edge of Gulu, I pointed out the compound of St. Monica's, and he pulled his huge truck to the side of the road. I disembarked, and he helped me carry my things from the cab to the gate. We shook hands: I wished him a safe journey, and he told me to have a good day. Walking through the gate, I smiled at the gatekeeper and waved to the lorry pulling off around the corner. This journey was far from what I expected, but it turned out far better than I could have imagined: I made a new friend and arrived safely.

Power.

2010-01-28T08:32:00.001-05:00

"Kinds of Power"

Knowing other people is intelligence,
knowing yourself is wisdom.
Overcoming others takes strength,
overcoming yourself takes greatness.
Contentment is wealth.

Boldly pushing forward takes resolution.
Staying put keeps you in position.

To live till you die
is to live long enough.

-Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, translation by Ursula K. Le Guin

radical hospitality.

2010-01-22T12:52:00.003-05:00

as i write, i'm hanging out in the sitting room of the convent, waiting for printer drivers to download (painfully slowly) on one of the sister's laptops, and listening to a room full of guests converse in acoli and madi. it's more than an hour later than we normally eat supper, but the food is not yet ready. well, that's not exactly true. some of the food is ready. the portion of food which would serve the eight or ten of us who were expected for supper (myself and the sisters who are around today) - that food is ready. but the portion which will serve all of us plus the two carloads of unexpected guests who showed up right before supper - that food is not yet finished cooking.

the nuns i live with, who belong to the order of the sacred heart of jesus (based in sudan), practise radical hospitality. i've rarely seen them turn down a request, and there's always space for another person at the table (even if it sometimes means that we eat in shifts, or an hour later). in the last hour and a half, we've expanded the menu and made up beds in multiple guest rooms. we've served sodas and cooked rice. we will eat soon, and there will be room at the table for everyone who is here, even those who weren't expected.

may i challenge you, the next time you think about hospitality, to consider moments such as this as the normal form of it?

Keeping my hands busy...

2010-01-15T04:28:00.003-05:00

First sewing project of the year:

mending a tear in one of my favourite skirts which resulted from a loose nail in a chair last month. We pounded the nail back in with a heavy rock, and I spent a few hours this week working on my skirt with needle and thread. The satisfactory result: a beautiful skirt which I can once again wear for dancing and twirling and all of life's other necessary activities!

recovering life.

2010-01-14T16:18:00.005-05:00

"The recovery of the now enables us to celebrate life where it is and encounter the mystery of each present moment. The recovery of our body enables us to live it as the sacrament of divine presence in the world. The recovery of nature is linked also with this awareness of sacramentality and comes to encompass the mountains and rivers, the great wide Earth. We are enabled to hear the cries of Earth, wounded and in pain, as our very own woundedness and pain. The recovery of our shadow allows us to face the evil in the world with courage and equanimity and take responsibility for it. And the recovery of the feminine is realized as we let go of that part of us that wants to control and dominate and exploit and, instead, allow cosmic compassion to work in our being. Unleashing this cosmic compassion is what effects our own healing and is likewise what empowers us to participate in tasks of healing Earth."

-Healing Breath, Ruben L.F. Habito.

Joy.

2010-01-13T10:42:00.009-05:00

Today after lunch, I came to my room to rest a bit. The sun was hot, and I've not been drinking enough water because of the massive fluctuations in temperature between night and mid-day, so I was nursing a slight headache. I intended to read, write a few postcards, and maybe take a short nap before meeting Sister Christine to trade computer lessons for Acoli lessons.

Four year old Joy had other plans for my afternoon.

Shortly after I came back from lunch at the convent, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Joy smiling up at me. "I'm bring baby," she told me, disappearing back to the mango tree where her mother and another woman were stringing bead rosaries. Within a few minutes, she was back, baby sister (or friend, I'm not sure) attached to her hip.

playtime.

I sighed, clearing away my writing supplies and watching my nap slip out of grasp. Instead, I pulled out the mat and toys that I keep handy to encourage children like Joy to visit my room. A plethora of balls, cups, small animals, shiny papers, and other odds and ends soon covered the floor. As I busied myself with a few tasks around my room, Joy would periodically interrupt me, "Look! Beautiful!" She has quite an extensive vocabulary for a preschooler, which I'll let St. Monica's Nursery School take most all the credit for, but one of her favourite words has thus far proven to be "beautiful." She uses it to describe, among other things: me, mardi gras beads and colourful bracelets, a matchbox car, and her favourite ball. Whenever Joy is playing in my room, I can count on hearing many exclamations of "Beautiful!"

Before long, Joy abandoned the toys and headed toward my bathroom, which she likes to use. "I go pufu," she told me, not a request, but a statement. I gave her toilet paper and left her to her business, returning after a bit to help her pull the handle and remind her to wash her hands with soap. Joy is certainly not shy.

After some more playing (and my recording and playing back a video of the two girls, much to Joy's amusement), the baby became fussy, so Joy took her back to Mama. Meanwhile, I gathered my dirty clothes, basins, and soap, and set out to do laundry on my front stoop. When Joy came back, she insisted on helping me. I let her, but made sure to start with small items (socks and handkerchiefs) that her small hands would manage easier. Joy turned out to be a decent washer, though once I moved on to shirts and skirts, I distracted her by convincing her that the colourful stacking cups should also be washed. So, while I continued washing clothes, she washed cups (and then used my camera to photograph the women beading).

water for washing.

As we washed, Joy decided to take the opportunity for a little learning. Periodically, she would point to an object, "what is this?". I would tell her the name in English, leb muno, and if she knew it, she would teach me the word in leb Acoli. We went through articles of clothing, colours (which she didn't know in Acoli), and the things we were using for washing: basin, soap, water, nomi (detergent). She already knew many of the words, but of course, it's always good to revise, particularly during the holiday.

Suddenly, our linguistics game was cut short by the appearance of a young boy. Slightly older than Joy, he was too shy to speak to me (in either language), but quickly made for the toys inside. Before too long, his younger brother showed up to play as well. I watched through the open window as they discovered the animals and balls that Joy had scattered across my floor earlier.

Continuing with my washing, I was surprised when one of the boys came to the door. Holding a ball in his hand, he made a request. I can't reproduce the words here, but it felt like a bit of a lingual breakthrough to realise that I understood him: he wanted to go with it at home. My refusal didn't stop him - or his younger brother - from making the same request about almost every other toy in the basket. Later, when they were leaving, I made them empty their pockets, thus regaining a matchbox car, a bouncy ball, and two shiny marbles as they grinned guiltily.

When more children arrived to play, Joy led the gang to the swingset in the preschool compound, within sight and throwing distance of my front door. I finished washing, went to hang my clothes on the line, then came back and started some writing. Before long, there was another knock on my door. Joy again, naked this time. "I want the bath," she informed me. Although she's used my toilet on multiple occasions, this was the first time she's asked to bathe in my bathroom.

washing my socks.

I agreed. Supplying her with a basin, washcloth, and bar of soap, I showed her the tap and left her to her bath. I returned to my writing as Joy splashed - and washed, of course - in my bathroom. Later, I toweled her down and sent her back to her mother, who was waiting with clean clothes and a desire to head home. Nevertheless, Joy appeared again a few minutes later to ask for oil (lotion) to make herself smart. When I told her I don't have any, "oil pe," she waved and ran back to the mango tree.

Now, as I sit in my quiet room, listening to the insects chirp outside and watching night fall quickly over the dusty landscape, Joy's sweet presence still pervades my room. Such a sweet child - and so aptly named!

Beads.

2010-01-12T01:04:00.003-05:00

Success, defined.

2010-01-11T15:46:00.002-05:00

thanks to lissa for sharing this quote with me...

To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest citizens and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of oneself; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived - this is to have succeeded.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thinking in Colour.

2010-01-07T14:22:00.000-05:00

Night Reflections.

2010-01-05T13:12:00.002-05:00

from my journal... written by candlelight on the stoop outside my room...

The stars are brilliant tonight with the power off. The night is cool and soft, banana plants rustling in the same wind which threatens to extinguish my candle. The buzz of insects fills my ears, and the rumble of vehicles heading north toward Sudan. I am surprised by the quiet; perhaps it is early yet for the music from town, but surely it will come later.

I know that some people feel overwhelmed by such a full sky of stars. Truly, it is not something we see often in the US. Some would say such an expanse makes them feel small, inconsequential. I am not one of those people. The night sky comforts me, somehow reminding me that I am not alone in this gigantic universe. These days, darkness often brings loneliness, and I fear the onslaught of my dreams. But stars, or the moon, when it shines - they provide solace and comfort, even as I long for the presence of those that I love most dearly.

Sometimes, I contemplate bringing a matt out here and sleeping under the stars. I wonder if I could rig my mosquito net among the bananas?

Ant Dance.

2010-01-04T15:45:00.000-05:00

Tonight, when we reached home after supper, the electricity was still off, so our compound was quite dark. Not a huge problem: Sister shown the headlights for me to open the gates to the garage, then I used my torch (flashlight) to lock them.

Seeing that I had to enter the house from outside anyway, I decided to first head around back and pick my clothes from the line in the garden. I did laundry late this afternoon: bedsheets, handkerchiefs, citengi (the cloth that serves for towel, apron, picnic blanket, and a host of other purposes), a few shirts, and one especially mud-stained skirt. We sometimes leave clothes on the line at night, but theft seems more common when the electricity is off, so I decided it would be better to bring my things in. Besides, I figured they'd be dry by now.

When I shone my torch on the line, I was a bit surprised that the girls had not brought in the things they had washed earlier in the day. The habits and bedsheets for the house were dry before I even hung my clothes up, but I supposed they must have just decided to pick them in the morning. I had hardly unpinned two handkerchiefs of mine before I felt something crawling on my legs. Crawling, then, so quickly, biting my ankles, my calves, the back of my knee.

I ran toward the house, swatting at my legs, and making surprised sounds, “Oh! Eh!”

Someone called out, “what is it?”

“Sister, I don't know. I was picking my clothes from the line, but something is biting me now.” The bites continued, sharp little pricks pilgrimaging up and down my legs.

“Red ants,” they informed me, “you enter here and remove your trousers, or they will keep biting you.”

Dancing into the house, in the darkness of a powerless night and glad that the watchman was far out of sight, I pulled off my jeans and examined my legs to make sure no insects remained. Tying a citengi around my waist, I agreed to Sister's suggestion that I leave my trousers there until morning: I have absolutely no desire to infest my room with biting ants!

Reaching my room, I again checked myself for ants, then removed the slug which was hanging out in my toilet and took a cold shower. Some of the bites continue to itch, the worst being the ones clustered around the braided cord I wear tied on my right ankle: for the first time in months, I have removed it, at least until the welts go down. Mostly, though, I seem to have escaped without any serious damage.

I know now, of course, why the girls left the clothes on the line earlier: in the light, they could see that the area had been taken over by ants, and they weren't too interested in doing the “ant dance” themselves.

Supper with the Sisters.

2010-01-04T14:59:00.005-05:00

What an interesting evening this turned out to be!

Earlier, when I went up to the house to ask Sister Rosemary if I might use her modem, as I often do in the evenings before supper, she told me to “Get ready,” that we are soon going out for supper. It came as a bit of a surprise to me: every other night that I have stayed here (admittedly, not many), we have taken our supper here at home. Tonight was apparently going to be different.

We piled into the car: four nuns and me, the youngest and lightest skinned by far. Before heading to the hotel, we first drove around town looking for a place to exchange our crate of empty bottles for a full one. Electricity was off, however, and it was just dark, so we couldn't find any open shop. Oh well, we would just have to buy our drinks at a higher price.

The Golden Peace Hotel seems to be a fairly new establishment to Gulu, but it is not far from our school and employs a few former students. We were greeted upon our arrival and given, at our request, a table in the grass beyond the parking lot. We weren't there very long, though. Shortly after we ordered our drinks – coke for me, and Sister Rosemary told the waiter to bring two – the conversation took a turn toward caterpillars, don't ask me why. Sister Rosemary shares my deep dislike for these fuzzy creatures; possibly, she is more fearful of them than I. The others were curious about our shuddering, so we told similar stories of terrible encounters. Before long, it was decided that we had better move to a table on the veranda, for who knew what might creep out of the night while we sat there in the grass. Of course, it was also proposed that we tell the waitstaff that it was mosquitoes disturbing us.

We found our place inside, received our drinks, and ordered our food. When the hotel's generator went off, it was remarked that it was good we had moved to this spot: wouldn't we have feared sitting way out in the grass with only a candle? Of course, the candle was mostly only good for attracting small flying insects, but at least no creepy crawlies.

As we waited for our food, first by candlelight, and later in the glow of the electric lights – the generator came back, though not UMEME – the conversation continued its winding way. After one particularly hilarious story or comment, I remarked to the Sisters, all of whom took their vows before I was even born, that I think most people unfamiliar with nuns would expect them to be a serious, solemn bunch. I have yet to encounter one who would fit this description [any similar stereotypes I may have once held about priests have also long been shattered, but that's another story thread], and I told them that. They laughed: I amuse them as much as they amuse me, I often think. They assured me, however, that this might be an eccentric trait of their order, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. If I met nuns from certain other orders, I would find them just the opposite: mean and sullen, even. But my comment sparked multiple stories of people they had encountered here or there who were surprised at the humour and good-naturedness of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. After spending a week with more nuns than I'd ever met before in my life, I can certainly attest to the presence of those traits.

Another shift, and I suddenly found myself the centre of attention. Sister Ritah, Sister Sophie, and Mother Gina, all of whom stay in Sudan, were asking why I did not declare myself an aspirant, that is, one who desires to join the order. I was not entirely surprised; this was not the first time the topic has been raised. However, this was the first time it was pressed so hard. Sister Rosemary dismissed their queries: “she doesn't want, she has a boyfriend there.” They were not to be put off the scent so easily, though: “Christine, why don't you leave your boyfriend there? He's probably found another girl there anyway. You know, men can be so unfaithful.” “Eh,” I defended him, “You don't even know him. Me, I think he's faithful. And, he's too busy with his books to be playing around with some other girl.”

It was around this point that Sister Ritah decided to let me go, acknowledging that I didn't seem interested in becoming a nun right now. “We'll always pray for you, you know. And when we pray for you, we'll pray for that boy also.”

Mother Gina was thrilled to find out that my boyfriend is studying for a PhD in Biology. “You will be our associates, both of you,” she informed me, already extending him an offer to come and teach at her secondary school in Sudan.

A bit disappointed that they would not get to have me as a fellow nun, they decided instead that I would have to bring this guy to meet them after I married him. Or, better yet, I'd better just come and wed him from here. And they'll make my cake for me: all settled.

Sister Sophie, on the other hand, remains, to this moment, unconvinced. She also promised to pray for me, that I wake up one morning and realise my vocation, and for my boyfriend, that he decide to leave me to the religious path. She extended an invitation for me to visit her in Khartoum whenever he should come and visit, but I told her I wasn't sure if I trusted her intentions: I wouldn't put it past her to tease him mercilessly in an attempt to pull me into the convent. My refusals, that “ah, I don't want” and “I'm not even Catholic” were easily thrust aside.

Eventually the conversation shifted again, leaving me with three nuns planning my wedding and a fourth still contemplating how to prevent its happening, the general atmosphere reminding me of any gathering of my own aunts.

Numeric Fun.

2010-01-02T02:55:00.001-05:00

How cool this morning to see my phone putting this:

10:20.

02.01.2010.

Three numbers to make all of the date and time – imagine! Even better will come next month: 01.02.2010. Actually, I guess if you write the American date, it has already reached that palindrome. But for the rest of us, it'll come around next month!

So exciting life can be for those who notice the patterns made by numbers.

2010 Greetings.

2009-12-31T16:07:00.002-05:00

My dear friends around the world,
I greet you in this, the first hour of the new year.
Know that I would have sent you the message even at that very moment,
but midnight has found us without any service in any single network.
So, instead, I raise my glass to you and wish you love and peace
and a full share of life's adventures in this new year.
May your rain come in good time
and the sun warm you with its shining.
May your roads be smooth and your journeys safe.
May you always find food on your table
and never fear for the security of your children.
May you love and be loved in return.
May your beer be cold and your coffee hot.
May you find yourself in the company of those who love life –
and may your days be full of laughter.

Firsts in 2009.

2009-12-30T08:48:00.002-05:00

Celebrated the New Year in Uganda.
Studied the general behaviours of maribou storks.
Realised that pineapples don't grow on trees.
Suffered from malaria.
Danced Kiganda and Kisoga.
Translated Luganda into English for someone else.
Visited Kitgum and Gulu.
Paid school fees for children in primary school.
Received mail from India.
Taught a seminar on restorative discipline.
Received a chicken as a gift.
Took holiday in Rwanda.
Saw a crested crane.
Bought earrings for myself.
Got my ears pierced.
Visited Soroti.
Visited Kotido.
Been delightedly surprised to hear my school announced as the winner of the Deanery Education Week.
Was the guest of honour at a school function.
Read Luganda in a public setting.
Finished my first year of service with MCC.
Became a vegetarian.
Attended my first cousin's wedding.
Bought a mac.
Took a graduate level course.
Visited Philadelphia.
Rode a train.
Rode the subway.
Learnt to use Quickbooks.
Received mail from Uganda while in America.
Had my first second kiss.
Knocked another vehicle.
Changed my relationship status on facebook.
Visited the midwest.
Visited Goshen College.
Played trivia with friends at an Indiana bar.
Ate Mexican food with my fingers with a handsome date.
Saw “Annie” performed onstage.
Took a connecting flight through Heathrow airport.
Sent postcards to random people through Postcrossing.
Started learning Acoli.
Experienced the intensity of the northern Ugandan sun.
Lived in a hut.
Learnt the rules for matatu.
Drank 10 litres of water in a day.
Seen normal Ugandan men wearing shorts.
Ground odi [ground nuts & sim sim].
Carried water on my head.
Learnt to make chapatis.
Was given an Acoli name.
Visited Kabale.
Took photos at the Equator.
Got my ears pierced again.
Seen goats given to the winner of a football match.
Started learning Italiano.
Crossed the Nile on a ferry.
Visited West Nile.
Eaten regularly with religious nuns.
Ate bagels on Boxing Day.
Bought DVDs in Uganda.
Drank eggnog.
Iced a cake Ugandan style.

A Visit to My Room.

2009-12-27T15:19:00.006-05:00

you are most welcome.

the view from my door.

the view from the corner by my desk,

looking back at the door.

my bathroom:

flush toilet,

cold shower (where my green towel is hanging),

sink.

come in, sit down, i'll fix you a cup of tea.

Father Jjajja.

2009-12-27T11:55:00.005-05:00

Of the three priests posted to St Jude Bukoto Parish, Father Lubega Jerome is the oldest by far. In his upper eighties, he celebrated his fiftieth year as an ordained priest in 2008. His office is decorated with, among other things, a photo of his first celebration of the Eucharist and a banner proclaiming, “You are a priest forever.”

Throughout the parish, Father Jerome is lovingly referred to as Father Jjajja; in English, Father Grandfather. As per his ordination vows, Father Jjajja has never borne children of his own. Yet, with their full blessing, he relates in a grandfatherly way to every adult and child in the community.

Father Jjajja is the keeper of the parish visitor's book, and he enthusiastically welcomes any and all guests. I love visiting Father Jjajja at the parish. Last year, he was often the only priest I'd find around if I walked up to the parish during the day: the younger two tend to move around a bit more and celebrate various functions.

He speaks with a bit of an elderly mumble, but his English is impeccably British, and he still periodically teaches me new words in Luganda. More than a year ago, as I was first attempting to learn this (then) new language, it was Father Jjajja who taught me to say that I was learning “empola empola” – slowly by slowly – using his own unhurried walk to demonstrate the meaning of this new phrase. Father Jjajja does many things slowly by slowly, as he is certainly entitled to as his advanced age.

If you ask him why he wanted to become a priest, as a dear friend of mine did last week, he will grin softly and tell you of the British Fathers who used to visit his village when he was a small boy. He remembers liking the grand clothes they put on and the sweets they would hand out: he noticed that the Fathers were always well-fed and well-groomed. This is not to suggest that Father Jjajja (or others who would make the same admission) does not have a deep and meaningful calling to the priestly vocation. From his gentle manner and humble demeanour to his faithful practice of the daily order of prayers, Father Jjajja is the type of priest – and grandfather – that the world could surely use a great deal more of.

Gifting Father Jjajja.

2009-12-27T11:54:00.008-05:00

When I was leaving Bukoto a few months ago, Father Jjajja had a single request of me. He did not ask for money or sponsorship; he has no need for American pen friends (he already has acquaintances scattered around the globe). Instead, he showed me a set of prayer books that an American priest had gifted him with decades and decades before. Four volumes, each coloured to match its period in the church calendar, which laid out the daily order of prayers and readings for the entire year. Used before they even reached him, these books have been Father Jjajja's daily prayer companions ever since. The spines were removing themselves, the ribbons fraying: the prayer books of a man who faithfully prays for his congregation and colleagues.

His one request: try to find the publisher in the United States and see if I could find him a new(er) copy. He didn't mind having a used copy, but he would really like to use books which were in slightly better condition. Most likely I wouldn't be able to find anything, and that would be perfectly fine, but could I please try?

I promised I would.

Last week, after getting rained on while we saw the new developments at St Jude Junior School, a friend and I walked up to the parish to visit Father Jjajja in particular. We had been invited to dine with the Fathers later that evening (true to his youthful observation, many priests continue to eat quite well), but I wanted to spend a little extra time with Father Jjajja before that. In part, I knew he would be excited to make a new friend; even more than that, however, I was excited to surprise him with the gift I had tucked into first my suitcase, and now my backpack: four brand new leather bound volumes of the Liturgy of the Hours. Wrapped in white paper and accounting for a few of the kilogrammes of weight I was allotted on the British Air flight, these books had been a delightful burden since arriving in my mailbox last month. So, we walked up to the parish, found Father, and started conversing with him.

When I could barely contain myself and was about to bring the books out of my bag anyway, Father Jjajja finally brought up his earlier request. Had I had any luck finding out about those books which he showed me before I left? Later, he told me that he didn't really expect that I would have gotten them: it was a bit of a long shot and really the kind of question you ask a friend who is leaving but don't really know if they'll give a thought to it after they've left (kind of along the same lines as all of my fellow teachers who never expected to see me in Bukoto this Christmas and thought I had promised to return simply to make them “feel comfortable”...).

How delighted was he when I unzipped my pack and started pulling out the four paper-covered texts. He exclaimed over each one as Madame Noe, my friend, and I helped unwrap them ever so carefully. Aw, delightful!

We spent the next hour or so watching to Father flip through the books and explain to us the order of their contents: daily readings, morning prayers, saints' day prayers, psalms, evening prayers, coloured ribbons and gilded pages. He brought out his older copies and showed us where he had added “Ug” to the list of countries whose bishops had approve this text. This newer edition already included Uganda. He showed us the prayers at the end of the psalms, this being one of his reasons for preferring this American version to the Irish ones typically used by his brother priests. He read to us the prayer for the day, then explained the inserts for additional saints and common prayers. On and on, oh, he was so happy with this gift!

Later that night over supper, Father Jjajja compared his joy over these new prayer books to that of a small child gifted with a new dress or new shoes. Just as children can spend hours – or even days – looking at their new things, just as they delight in putting them on and noticing how smart they look, just as they are extra careful not to spoil their new things: so was he with his new books. Indeed, a more than adequate comparison!

And how wonderful to share in an old man's joy and delight this Christmas.

unwrapping the books with father jjajja.

volume 2: new book, old book.

complete set: liturgy of the hours.

Stairway to Nowhere.

2009-12-27T11:44:00.001-05:00

unfinished building, taxi park, luweero, uganda.

On my mind...

2009-12-24T10:35:00.003-05:00

Rain, rain, go away.

Come again another day.

All the children want to play.

Rain, rain, go away.

... or just, go someplace else in this region,

someplace hot and dry that needs you so much.

Please Read.

2009-12-21T09:00:00.001-05:00

An article about the current humanitarian crisis in Southern Sudan:

http://www1.voanews.com/english/news/Humanitarian-Situation-in-Southern-Sudan-in-Crisis-79754937.html

Lake of the Birds.

2009-12-19T08:07:00.007-05:00

The story goes that when the Europeans first reached the lake, which had its own traditional name in the local language, they pointed and asked, "What do you call that?" Their native guides must have been amused or puzzled at this sudden curiousity. "Bunyonyi," they replied, "birds." Ever since, this beautiful lake where we took our annual MCC retreat has been known, at least to outsiders, as Lake Bunyonyi: Lake of the Birds.

A few photos from the lake and the surrounding region.

forest.

terracing in hill country.

yes, we were that high.

house on the lake.

oh beautiful lake.

they claim this is the deepest lake in uganda.

a crater lake, so it's in a valley.

so beautiful.

hibiscus (i think?).

sunrise over the lake.

early morning fog on the lake.

twilight.

Equator.

2009-12-19T07:28:00.002-05:00

I long ago lost track of the number of times I've moved across the equator by road transport... usually in a bus, but sometimes in a matatu (van taxi) or car. This week, travelling back and forth from Kampala to Kabale, I stopped for the first time (twice, actually!). There are some nice art/craft galleries alongside the road, a small photo op. point, and a coffee place operated by AidChild. Near the "N/S" circles, there are a few buckets set up to demonstrate the way water theoretically spins different ways in the different hemispheres. Personally, I've always imagined it impossible to demonstrate any such gravitational effect so close (about 1 metre) to the equator itself. Since the guys offering to prove it were demanding 10,000/= (a bit more than $5), I still don't know.

But I did take pictures this time...

An Advent Reflection.

2009-12-19T07:18:00.002-05:00

Although it's not exactly appropriate for my context (except that I was quite cold much of the week down in Kabale), I recently read this poem and thought it an apt reflection for this Advent season.

Making the House Ready for the Lord.

Dear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but

...... still nothing is as shining as it should be

for you. Under the sink, for example, is an

...... uproar of mice -- it is the season of their

many children. What shall I do? And under the eaves

...... and through the walls the squirrels

have gnawed their ragged entrances -- but it is the season

...... when they need shelter, so what shall I do? And

the raccoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard

...... while the dog snores, the cat hugs the pillow;

what shall I do? Beautiful is the new snow falling

...... in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly

up the path, to the door. And still I believe you will

...... come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox,

the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know

...... that really I am speaking to you whenever I say,

as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.

--from Mary Oliver's Thirst.

Context, context, context.

2009-12-19T06:14:00.003-05:00

Today, I found this email from EMU waiting for me in my inbox:

Everyone who is travelling the next two days should take into account the current Winter Storm Warning that is in effect from 6 PM this evening (Friday) through 6 AM on Sunday morning. On-campus students should aim to leave the residence halls as soon after their last exam as possible to stay ahead of the storm. Please speak to your RD if you have concerns about the direction the storm is tracking. Current radar (10 AM) shows a "wintry-mix" is in North Carolina and moving northward.

Please take safety precautions as you travel, and have a great Christmas break!

Truly, I appreciate the concern. However, it's a bit bizarre to consider from my current context: I'm wearing flip flops and drinking a tropical milkshake in a somehow open air mall in central Uganda. It does get a bit chilly sometimes when it rains...

Scenes from Atiak: Home Life.

2009-12-13T10:25:00.003-05:00

the children were quite excited to teach me how to carry water on my head.

(the jerry can holds 10 litres and is full; this is not a posed picture.)

my laundry hanging under the beautiful sky.

Scenes from Atiak: Food.

2009-12-13T10:14:00.003-05:00

food drying in the sun:

millet and sorghum (right)

eggplant (top left)

bal, a green (left)

simsim (sesame seeds), the "traditional food" in atiak.

pounding simsim.

grinding simsim, rock on rock.

"christine, you smile!"

(while grinding)

i love mango season!

Scenes from Atiak: People.

2009-12-13T10:00:00.005-05:00

two year old queen elizabeth ("queenie") and a friend

playing in the dirt.

my beautiful sister eva.

paul, the youngest of the boys,

often gets stuck as the tagger in "search and hide"

(which is like "kick the can")

my brother geoffrey, who is the parish chief, in his office.

7 year old paul drawing me pictures.

cousins playing cards in my hut.

Scenes from Atiak: Sights.

2009-12-13T09:49:00.002-05:00

our cinema makes good use of a UNHCR tarp.

a sign at the sub-county office reminding people not to pick up

"unknown objects,"

which could be remnants of war:

mines, grenades, ammunition, etc.

the monument stone erected at the sub-county

in memory of those massacred in atiak almost 15 years ago.

Scenes from Atiak: St Monica's Building Site.

2009-12-13T09:47:00.000-05:00

new classroom blocks being built at st. monica's atiak site.

Scenes from Atiak: Holy Eucharist at the Parish.

2009-12-12T15:59:00.003-05:00

father arnold, our tanzanian priest, praying at sunday mass.

Scenes from Atiak: Auction Day.

2009-12-12T15:50:00.003-05:00

the friday i arrived in atiak was auction day:

the monthly huge market day,

where you can buy just about everything you need -

and many things you don't!

Scenes from Atiak: New Dress.

2009-12-12T15:30:00.003-05:00

eva (right) and consy cutting and laying out the style for my new citenge dress.

14 month old aron onen is a better helper when occupied with a sweet.

dancing to show off my new outfit.

Connecting.

2009-12-11T17:48:00.002-05:00

Last week, the night before I left for my homestay in Atiak, I was flipping through some of my old journals. I came across this entry dated 1 April 2005 (yes, I was putting the day before the month even that long ago), spring of my freshman year of college. As I find myself once again in the process of building so many new relationships and adapting to a new culture, these words rang true in my heart once again.

"Surrounded by life - laughter, conversations, friends - I wonder why I can't immerse myself in such. I can, that must is true, but my soul longs for so much more. It is not your name, major, and state of residence that interest me. Rather, I want to look inside, connect with you on a deeper level. Discover your dreams, your desires, your passions. What makes you get up in the morning? What do you really truly want to do with your life? What are you afraid of? What brings you joy? What are life's deep questions that your soul so desperately longs to answer? What is your story? Those are the questions I want to ask of humankind. To make deep connections; to encounter other souls."

Truly, I've started to make some of those connections: with my host family in Atiak, with the Sisters who have opened their lives to me here in Gulu, with my namesake Daisy. These will deepen, and others must also come, as I immerse myself more fully into this culture and place...

me with my new sister evaline.

Sweeping Compound

2009-12-11T01:05:00.002-05:00

The first time I saw women sweeping their home compounds was a few years ago in Zambia (three and a half, to be exact, though it feels so much longer than that). It didn't make sense to me then: it seemed strange to think of sweeping dirt. After all, wouldn't it still be “dirt”-y?

Last year, as I watched my younger cousin sweep our compound every day, I learnt to tell the difference between, shall we say, “clean” dirt and “dirty” dirt. Where Americans have their front yards, Ugandans have compounds: the cleared space in front, beside, and around one's house where much of life takes place. The compound is kitchen, laundry room, meeting place, playground. It is here that groundnuts are shelled, potatoes peeled, dishes washed, babies fed, decisions made.

my hut.

Throughout the day, the compound is littered with the detritus of daily life: discarded beans, loose grass and leaves, groundnut shells, chicken droppings, and of course, all of the bits of plastic, wood, and rubber dragged in by wind and children at play.

And so, every evening, we take up a broom – made of cut grasses or even sticks – and we tidy up the place. The process must be repeated in the morning, to brush away the remnants of bottle caps, alcohol packets, goat droppings, and wind-blown leaves [I live now in a busy trading centre, if you couldn't tell by the types of litter I'm describing] – or even just to smooth the dirt which has settled during the night.

Because, you see, the compound is not just piles of lose dirt. Years of passing feet and scorching sun keep these portions of earth hard and firm. So a compound littered with life's rubbish, or even just lightly dusted with soil, like a poorly kept house, tends to signify that the inhabitants (particularly the female ones) are not bothered to keep their space well.

These days, I keep a small grass broom by my door for tidying inside my own hut and front step. And I daily take up the outside broom to sweep our compound. I suppose this should be added to my list of marriageable traits (not that most of my Ugandan suitors seem to worry about much more than my beauty!).

shoes.

A Mad Manifesto

2009-12-10T10:56:00.003-05:00

This evening, sitting at Mama Ruth's salon, I have watched one of the local mad men give a speech. He stood at the edge of the road, appearing to address quite a large (though invisible) crowd as he mumbled his words. He shook his fist at the sky, then covered his mouth and moved away. I can only imagine what manifesto he has declared for us all.

There seem to be quite a few mad people here in Atiak: men, women, and children. Leaving aside the drunkards, whose poor behaviour and nonsensical comments might be temporary, I must have encountered almost ten already, some of whom I have learnt to recognise.

There is the man who informed me that I am from Pakistan, have an Acholi husband and a baby called Giovany. This man with his unheard manifesto. The woman who demanded – in Luganda, nonetheless – that I buy her roasted maize. There is a boy who always smiles, showing all his teeth, and another who likes to do cartwheels. The second one likes to greet me, and today I met him eating a raw onion. There are others, too, whose unkempt appearance and strange behaviour attest to their disturbed mental status.

Auntie tells me that this is yet another result of the war and camp. Alcoholism and malnutrition and insanity: societal trauma attesting to the long-lasting affects of war and violence.

Yaa. (This Traditional Oil.)

2009-12-08T12:32:00.005-05:00

Yaa grows on trees and has a fruit which resembles mangoes, only it is smaller. The fruit stays green when it is ripe, and it is very sweet for eating. The seeds are brown and about the length of one knuckle. When you first get the seed, it has a smooth, light brown shell. After drying in the sun, you can remove this shell, then dry even the inner seed. These seeds can be preserved for some months inside.

When you want to make oil, you first roast the seeds on the fire, and they become black. Then you pound them, producing a thick, black, gooey substance. (If you also grind the seeds after pounding, it will produce more oil.)

This gooey substance, you take for cooking. First, you heat water, then add a good portion of the yaa. Heat to boiling, stirring constantly. The consistency should be neither very thick nor very thin. Cook for some time at a rolling boil, stirring occasionally. The oil is now separating from the thicker residue (which somehow resembles coffee grounds).

Pour off the oil, and discard the residue. Allow the oil to cool, then filter it.

Yaa can be used for cooking, but it is mostly taken as a condiment for food. For example, it can be poured over bread (made from sorghum and millet) and peas. It is sold in the market, and people seem to really enjoy it.

I watched Auntie prepare the oil from preserved seeds today, from grinding through the cooking process. It took a good part of the day, but we enjoyed the yaa oil with our supper. Personally, I prefer my food a little less oily, but it does have a very distinct flavour.

Solving Poverty.

2009-12-08T09:30:00.005-05:00

Today, fourteen year old Lucy has brought the map of Africa and showed me some of the countries. We have discussed poverty, and how this is a big problem in many African countries, especially Uganda.

Lucy has told me that Libya must be the wealthiest country in Africa, while Uganda is very poor. She also has a well-formed opinion as to the reasons. Libya has much money (I explained about oil), but maybe very few people. Uganda, on the other hand, has very many people, but little money (except perhaps that which is in the hands of politicians).

And even, people keep producing more children. Every day, she tells me, she sees women who are pregnant. People this way can have so many children - even 12, even 15!

So, what will you do, I asked her? Will you produce so many children?

No, she told me, I want few.

How many?

Maybe three or four?

How will you manage it? Will you use family planning?

Yes, it is good.

But what if your husband quarrels with you?

You know, I want to study, even to the degree. Then he cannot quarrel with me. You know, men this way quarrel with these women who have not studied. But when you study, you get a job, at the end of the month, even the salary. Then you take it home and support your children. So he cannot quarrel with you.

There, from the mouth of a primary student, is the solution to Africa's poverty (or at least, I significant step in that direction):

Educate women.

Give them jobs.

Make family planning an accessible and viable option.

Lucy, whose full name is Acan Ruth Mirembe, laughed very much when I read this story to her, but she agreed that I should share it with all of you. Here, in a photo approved by both of them (it took me quite a few shots to get a proper snap!), is Lucy (right) and her seventeen year old cousin Beatrice, who shares my house with me.

A Story.

2009-12-06T10:29:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time there was a man called Mr. Gorilla and his wife called Mrs. Monkey. One day they went in a village far away. There was drought in that village. One day they saw a flying little and big bird. They asked the bird to give them the fruits it has carried but the bird refused. Another bird came. It gave them fruits and they thanked the bird. One day the man trapped a trap. The bird which refused to give them fruits entered in the trap. They was so happy and the bird told them forgive me and they also refused too...

Moral: Be carefull and kindfull.

This story was written - and illustrated - for me by Kyangwa Enock, my 12 (and a half!, as he always makes sure to inform me) year old cousin neighbour. For a P5 student in the far northern districts of Uganda, this story shows a significant depth of grammar and creativity (notes the English teacher in me). Of course, I should also admit that he lived and studied in Jinja until recently, so he's got quite a significant advantage on his age-mate cousins...

A visitor for one day...

2009-12-03T10:44:00.006-05:00

I'm sitting in the dining room, listening to the Sisters recite prayers, feeling the air cool as the sun sets, and watching my new friend Daisy play with a rainbow-coloured bouncy ball she found in my room. It has been a long day - long, but good. I've been in to town twice, explored the school compound a bit, gone on a visit with two of the Sisters, taken a nap, and watched an electrician fix the wires in my room (lesson learnt: when grounding wires touch hot wires, strong shocks can result from any use of the electrical outlet!). I've learnt a few Acholi words, bought a mop and broom, and inked a few pages in my journal. Yesterday, Sister Rosemary promised me that I would be a visitor for only one day: this morning, Sister Christine requested my assistance moving groceries to the store, and this afternoon, Sister Lucy teased me that I had to carry the material we bought because I am the youngest, the "last-born" of this family. It seems they have remained true to the promise: I am no longer quite a visitor in this place, though it doesn't yet feel like home either.

I've already made many new friends here at St. Monica's, namely the Sisters and the young men and women who are working here during their school holidays. One of my favourite people to spend time with, however, is much younger than all of them. Daisy is two years old, slowly recovering from malnutrition, and a bit shy until she gets used to you. She is sweet, clever, and more than a bit stubborn (don't dare touch her little chair when she's sitting: she'll quickly remove your hand, foot, or what have you!). Hers is a sad story, which Sister Rosemary explains more on her blog. Daisy is tiny, and her hair is tinged with red, a tell-tale sign of malnutrition. These days, she is staying here at the school, drinking lots of milk, and learning to talk a bit. She loves to be held and to play. If I leave the house while she is in the dining room, she will stand at the window facing my room (though she is far too short to see out) and call, "Tina bim. Tina bim." (Tina come. Tina come.) And when I find her playing, I'll call, "Daisy bim. Daisy bim." (Daisy come. Daisy come.)

My Acholi vocabulary is slowly expanding to include the words I'm learning to communicate with Daisy: come, ball, milk... Daisy will be one of my students in the preschool/day care, and I have to admit, she will have the advantage of a) already being familiar with my white skin and b) already having captured my heart. Somehow, I imagine the others will catch up fairly quickly.

So here, I'm pleased to introduce you to Miss Daisy Aber.

Wait, what did you just say?

2009-11-30T15:26:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-11-28T14:35:00.002-05:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

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

Oh baby, I hate to go.

Itinerary

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

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

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

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

Immigration.

Baggage Claim.

Customs.

Taxi ride to Kampala.

Reunion with my MCC reps.

Sleep.

Theory of Relativity.

2009-11-23T09:59:00.003-05:00

"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.