On this rainy Saturday morning I find myself at the local Seventh Day Adventist Church. English thrown in to season their Tonga. I think Tonga sounds like bubbles. The deep bubbles massaging a hot tub and floating above to pop at the surface. And in the sermon they reach out to me with english phrases. "a flower blooms" tonga tonga "and God is love but" bubbles bubbles. But what? And where is this flower?
Im almost as lost as the time I alternated between attending Catholic Mass and Pentecostal celebrations. Everyone organizes their own language to describe that haunting spark that connects all humanity. If you dont know the lingo than you follow the herd. sit, kneel, stand, sit, utter Amen.
I sat next to the pastor's wife because she has the hymnn book I casually glance at to follow along. And on my other side sat a lady with bugs bunny stitched on her hat. I like sitting in places to be entertained.
Sometimes at school I would find the most awkward looking couple in the cafeteria and sit, slowly rubbing elbows with them and nodding my head in their direction. Once I even leaned in to answer a question in their confused conversation, "the term in mullato" rub, rub and then I got up and walked away. You ever rub elbows with a stranger? Its a weird sensation. I think because our elbows rarely touch anything. When a stranger touches your butt you know how to react. (well, usually. it relies on a sensitive Stranger-To-Butt ratio to determine Annoyance-To-Heres My Number reaction) But your elbow? Do you say,"um, excuse me. keep your pointy away from my pointy." Because that sounds lame.
So yes, sitting and being entertained while listening to bubbly tonga. Then Bugs got up and switched seats with a fat lady that put her hand on my knee, said "hello" and stuck out her tongue. The preacher continued tonga "for the erection" bubbles. My eyes shot open, "no bugs, come back Bugs!" Tell the fat lady to get her grubby hands off the skirt I scrubbed by hand yesterday.
Wait, did the preacher just say "erection"? The Pastor's wife showed me her bible study book. The title of today "Resurrection and Ascension". ok, phew I feel better. Its just the lack of "r" sounds and those breath filled "ss" that got me all riled up. pun intended.
Ah, crap. The kid wrapped in the citenge on the back of the woman in front of me just woke up and is staring at me. I give him 45 seconds before he starts to cry. I smile. blink kid. 30. I blew him a bubble from my ever present orbit gum. blink kid. 15. He starts tapping on his mom's shoulder. I smile. blink kid. 5. The mouth opens and the mom swoops him forward. ok, phew I feel better.
I look around the church and there is that familiar question in my mind. Where are all the people my age? My closest friends in the village are in their 30s. The rest are strong old women or dirty kids. I guess the children of the 80s are either working in town or dead; leaving their dirty kids to be whipped into shape by the strong old women.
Grubby Hands next to me is laughing. And quietly repeating bubbles "seka, seka" (laugh, laugh). I sucked in my elbows.
Glancing behind me I see Jane, wife #2 of the family I live with, yawn and smile as we lock eyes. The preacher said "vocation of trust and location of spirit." At least thats what it sounded like. Thats an intersting phrase. Before I had time to contemplate it they rang the cow bell and I stood with the herd for the closing prayer.
Or so I thought.
A lady, looking smart in glasses and a sweet leather jacket, steps forward and raised a wand. Yes! This is why I come. The singing grows louder with each verse - turns out Grubby Hands is a baritone, no surprise there. The wand is thrust about as if the lady was casting spells. While I was instinctively ducking and dodging, 3 young men with 2 makeshift guitars moved forward to sing a Mariachi style ballad. The her "Amens" throughout.
Another man steps forward and the herd politely sits to hear sermon #2. This man is much more fired up then the opening act earlier and he is passionately bellowing "Judas" every other sentence.
Which reminds me of my best friend's stuffed gingerbread man she named Judas. So now I picture him running along the rafters of this crumbling building. You cant catch Judas, RUN!
I should mention that there are 2 loofah sponge balls hanging from the rafters as decoration. So now Im giggling, as preacher man screams "Judas, Confess Judas" and I visualize a gingerbread man swinging on the ball, cackling "I wont confess."
And I look at Grubby Hands and whisper "seka, seka." She nods, I blow a bubble and we rub elbows.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Be Our Guest
You ever smell the person your talking to and they smell so bad that you can hear what they're saying over the sound of your judging thoughts? And then you realize your the one that smells! Yea me neither.
You ever know that what your about to eat is going to make you sick? And not sick in a Im so full I couldnt possibly eat another piece of chocolate cake, and you do. But sick in a oh dear Lord if I can make it through this creature dish I vow to dedicate my first born to you just like Abraham and Isaac, Hannah and Samuel, the Big Man and Jesus.
Well I should probably just join a convent and sell my ovaries for these vows are starting to add up.
I was a guest. It was my first meeting with the Zimpelele women's group and they were serious about being taken serious. They had long drawn out speeches about their hard work that is raising money for the orphans in the area. I admit, I was focused and drawn in. They even sang upon my arrival! They showed me some vegetables they were growing which included the largest onions Ive seen in Zambia. These werent just my kind of women, these were MY women. All in a group. Loving me, loving them.
And thats why when they beamed at the presentation of their recently acquired cow, I started to worry. Because Zambians have this thing for milk. sour milk. like not yogurt and not cottage cheese. Just, hi, Im milk in a country with no refridgeration.
Hi, Im the honored guest.
This greeting of the meal reminded me of the first time I tried Kapenta. My host family was so eager for me to try all Zambian delacicies and when they put forward a bowlful of kapenta (small sardine like fish with wide-open eyes just judging you as you eat them) we had quite the introduction. followed by a conversation that ended in an argument. I cant blame them though. If some large creature were going to cook and eat me I would stare them down the whole time too.
Back to the women's group.
We sat down for lunch. THe women huddled on the ground under a tree and me, sitting in the outdoor kitchen with the men. This always confuses me but at least Im not one of those girls thats afraid to eat in front of men.
So after the typical cwibuntu, nsima and chicken (chicken is only typical for guests, so thats one point Me) they brought out the milk. And I, looking nervous, tried to play the polite "Im full" card but it wasnt working. The main man told me I had two options. The fresh milk just taken from the cow - yes that cow right over there. Or the sour milk which would impress them and lead to many more successful meetings.
I thought it over. Doesnt milk have to be pasteurized?
So is option one, sick? and option two, death?
Because if so, I totally choose sick.
And I did, choose option fresh milk.
And mixed it with nsima and sugar. It was delicious.
The good Lord held up his side of the bargain. So I guess I'll just to wait to break the news to my baby's daddy.
You ever know that what your about to eat is going to make you sick? And not sick in a Im so full I couldnt possibly eat another piece of chocolate cake, and you do. But sick in a oh dear Lord if I can make it through this creature dish I vow to dedicate my first born to you just like Abraham and Isaac, Hannah and Samuel, the Big Man and Jesus.
Well I should probably just join a convent and sell my ovaries for these vows are starting to add up.
I was a guest. It was my first meeting with the Zimpelele women's group and they were serious about being taken serious. They had long drawn out speeches about their hard work that is raising money for the orphans in the area. I admit, I was focused and drawn in. They even sang upon my arrival! They showed me some vegetables they were growing which included the largest onions Ive seen in Zambia. These werent just my kind of women, these were MY women. All in a group. Loving me, loving them.
And thats why when they beamed at the presentation of their recently acquired cow, I started to worry. Because Zambians have this thing for milk. sour milk. like not yogurt and not cottage cheese. Just, hi, Im milk in a country with no refridgeration.
Hi, Im the honored guest.
This greeting of the meal reminded me of the first time I tried Kapenta. My host family was so eager for me to try all Zambian delacicies and when they put forward a bowlful of kapenta (small sardine like fish with wide-open eyes just judging you as you eat them) we had quite the introduction. followed by a conversation that ended in an argument. I cant blame them though. If some large creature were going to cook and eat me I would stare them down the whole time too.
Back to the women's group.
We sat down for lunch. THe women huddled on the ground under a tree and me, sitting in the outdoor kitchen with the men. This always confuses me but at least Im not one of those girls thats afraid to eat in front of men.
So after the typical cwibuntu, nsima and chicken (chicken is only typical for guests, so thats one point Me) they brought out the milk. And I, looking nervous, tried to play the polite "Im full" card but it wasnt working. The main man told me I had two options. The fresh milk just taken from the cow - yes that cow right over there. Or the sour milk which would impress them and lead to many more successful meetings.
I thought it over. Doesnt milk have to be pasteurized?
So is option one, sick? and option two, death?
Because if so, I totally choose sick.
And I did, choose option fresh milk.
And mixed it with nsima and sugar. It was delicious.
The good Lord held up his side of the bargain. So I guess I'll just to wait to break the news to my baby's daddy.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Ken Jennings?
I was in the middle of a dream. I was a student at Fuller Theological Seminary and as punishment for making clearly inappropiate jokes about the term "Fuller" I was being made to watch an Extreme House Makeover marathon, hosted by Ken Jennings. (that guy that won Jeopardy too many times)
Obviously it was a dream displaying many resentments harboring in my subconscious. So there I was in a board meeting room, resembling the hall in the University of Oklahoma's library that houses the doctoral theses (which, oddly enough, resembles the great dining hall in Harry Potter films). Anyways, Im sitting, watching Ken Jennings drone on about some poor family which I feel something move across my feet.
It was at this moment when I woke up from the dream and realized I was feeling something moving, across the soles of my feet. So I did what anybody would do after bring startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I started kicking like Mia Hamm in the womb. While simultaneously reaching around for my headlamp. I looked like an epileptic doing snow angels.
Much to my dismay I had been moving around a lot that night and now I was severely disoriented as to my position on my bed in relation to said headlamp.
So I did what anybody would do while being severely disoriented after being startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I curled up into the fetal position and told myself I was in Mother Mary's womb. Safe and softly floating in the holy mother's fluids.
On reflection that sounds disgusting and perhaps blasphemous but right then it was overwhelmingly sooting and surprisingly orienting! I found my headlamp.
Its probably a good time mention my mosquito net, aka the Force Field. Which I have had (up until 2 days ago) complete faith in. What happened 2 days ago?
Well, trying to conserve batteries, I was using a candle to read in bed and, hey, guess what, mosquito nets are flammable. But dont worry, I fixed the hole with a clothes pin...or so I thought.
GAH!
Huge WARNING signs. Open hole in Force Field. Startled awake by an Intruder!
It was time to reasses the the situation.
Headlamp: ON
Phone: 2:34 am
Orbit Gum: Chewing (yes, i sleep next to a pack of gum)
I proceeded to conduct a thorough perimeter check for any untucked areas in addition to the gaping hole.
Perimeter secure.
I conducted a scan, like if X-MEN'S Cyclopes was a grocery store cashier. I was no missing a square inch of my bed. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Kunyina. Tagwe. Nothing!
And thats exactly what I found. Or didnt find. Are you disappointed? I was. Actually no, I was distressed. I mean who can go back to sleep after that.
Good think I keep a bible next to my bed. Leviticus ought to do the trick.
19:11, do not steal. I did use my neighbor's spoon without asking today.
19:30, observe my Sabbath and have reverence for my sanctuary. Damn, today was Saturday and not only was I mocking a theological institution in my sleep but I was awake wishing to occupy the same place as the baby jesus.
This wasnt working. I turned off my headlamp. I spit out the gum.
And started to recite the preamble to the Constitution. "We the people of the United States in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility..."
Ensure what?
That bastard Jefferson!
And to think I told a friend she should name her dog after Jefferson. But she chose Kilroy, a bar she frequented back home, ah yes home where I slept peacefully without a force field, fields like corn and wheat and cotton, cotton candy like soft pillows...
Startled awake at 6:45 by my rooster.
My rooster's name is Ralph. I hate the name almost as much as I hate the rooster.
As the rising sun shed its light into my hut the groggy recollections of the night's activities charged back into focus.
I glared down at my feet and there, wrapped in the net was the anklet my sister had given me. dangling at just the right spot to tickle my toes.
So I chuckled at my paranoia and as I went about getting ready for the day, I promised myself I would never be a grocery store cashier.
Post-Script: Ralph as since been killed. He was delicious (thanks for the fajita seasoning mom) and I enjoyed de-feathering him very much.
Double Post-Script: Jefferson did NOT write the preamble to the constitution. But I bet many of you didnt know that. And seeing as how we are free to interpret the document, Im free to reassign the author.
Triple Dogg-Dare Post-Script: Goin back to the village after Thanksgiving (which was awesome). I will be back Dec 20 on my way up to Northern Province for Christmas. Im doing great but my friends need prayers for their backs, which are abused here.
Obviously it was a dream displaying many resentments harboring in my subconscious. So there I was in a board meeting room, resembling the hall in the University of Oklahoma's library that houses the doctoral theses (which, oddly enough, resembles the great dining hall in Harry Potter films). Anyways, Im sitting, watching Ken Jennings drone on about some poor family which I feel something move across my feet.
It was at this moment when I woke up from the dream and realized I was feeling something moving, across the soles of my feet. So I did what anybody would do after bring startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I started kicking like Mia Hamm in the womb. While simultaneously reaching around for my headlamp. I looked like an epileptic doing snow angels.
Much to my dismay I had been moving around a lot that night and now I was severely disoriented as to my position on my bed in relation to said headlamp.
So I did what anybody would do while being severely disoriented after being startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I curled up into the fetal position and told myself I was in Mother Mary's womb. Safe and softly floating in the holy mother's fluids.
On reflection that sounds disgusting and perhaps blasphemous but right then it was overwhelmingly sooting and surprisingly orienting! I found my headlamp.
Its probably a good time mention my mosquito net, aka the Force Field. Which I have had (up until 2 days ago) complete faith in. What happened 2 days ago?
Well, trying to conserve batteries, I was using a candle to read in bed and, hey, guess what, mosquito nets are flammable. But dont worry, I fixed the hole with a clothes pin...or so I thought.
GAH!
Huge WARNING signs. Open hole in Force Field. Startled awake by an Intruder!
It was time to reasses the the situation.
Headlamp: ON
Phone: 2:34 am
Orbit Gum: Chewing (yes, i sleep next to a pack of gum)
I proceeded to conduct a thorough perimeter check for any untucked areas in addition to the gaping hole.
Perimeter secure.
I conducted a scan, like if X-MEN'S Cyclopes was a grocery store cashier. I was no missing a square inch of my bed. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Kunyina. Tagwe. Nothing!
And thats exactly what I found. Or didnt find. Are you disappointed? I was. Actually no, I was distressed. I mean who can go back to sleep after that.
Good think I keep a bible next to my bed. Leviticus ought to do the trick.
19:11, do not steal. I did use my neighbor's spoon without asking today.
19:30, observe my Sabbath and have reverence for my sanctuary. Damn, today was Saturday and not only was I mocking a theological institution in my sleep but I was awake wishing to occupy the same place as the baby jesus.
This wasnt working. I turned off my headlamp. I spit out the gum.
And started to recite the preamble to the Constitution. "We the people of the United States in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility..."
Ensure what?
That bastard Jefferson!
And to think I told a friend she should name her dog after Jefferson. But she chose Kilroy, a bar she frequented back home, ah yes home where I slept peacefully without a force field, fields like corn and wheat and cotton, cotton candy like soft pillows...
Startled awake at 6:45 by my rooster.
My rooster's name is Ralph. I hate the name almost as much as I hate the rooster.
As the rising sun shed its light into my hut the groggy recollections of the night's activities charged back into focus.
I glared down at my feet and there, wrapped in the net was the anklet my sister had given me. dangling at just the right spot to tickle my toes.
So I chuckled at my paranoia and as I went about getting ready for the day, I promised myself I would never be a grocery store cashier.
Post-Script: Ralph as since been killed. He was delicious (thanks for the fajita seasoning mom) and I enjoyed de-feathering him very much.
Double Post-Script: Jefferson did NOT write the preamble to the constitution. But I bet many of you didnt know that. And seeing as how we are free to interpret the document, Im free to reassign the author.
Triple Dogg-Dare Post-Script: Goin back to the village after Thanksgiving (which was awesome). I will be back Dec 20 on my way up to Northern Province for Christmas. Im doing great but my friends need prayers for their backs, which are abused here.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Dinner Table
I love the relationships that are formed over a good meal. The cooking aspect is something Im slowly appreciating. The eating aspect is easier to appreciate. The way food opens the soul of conversation is a holy invention often manipulated by pride.
Thats why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Everyone attempts to respect the holiness of communion and conversation of life flows as easily as a head wound.
On my first Thanksgiving out of the country I am spending the week with other development workers at the Namwianga Mission. Some of which develop the mind (teachers), the body (physicians), and the soul (missionaries). And throughout this time together the holy communion of dinner table conversation turns to the challenges in AIDS work.
The frustrations, the myths, the fact, the hopes, the plans of each worker for the people we are all growing to love. loving to grow?
Prevention to students?
Outreach to mothers?
Education of clubs?
I believe the key is behavior change. With something as abstract as a disease that takes time to infiltrate the body's defenses it seems education lacks impact. But how do you break the chains of tradition?
Hope of the future is often clouded by present horrors.
So how do you escape when trapped?
I believe behavior change is a direct result of relationship influence. Anytime I followed through with a decision it was based on the influence of my family and friends. Influences of encouragement. of fear. desire to imitate or to shed any resemblance.
So it seems that this united people of Zambia must unite with an Influence. People must come together to create behavior change.
For if one can infect so many with a disease than for hope of health to be contagious One must become Two.
Them must become Us.
You must become Me.
Food must become Talk.
Prevent.
Outreach.
Educate.
Above all, Relate.
Holy communion dinner table conversation - Where hope develops the mind/body/soul to change.
Thats why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Everyone attempts to respect the holiness of communion and conversation of life flows as easily as a head wound.
On my first Thanksgiving out of the country I am spending the week with other development workers at the Namwianga Mission. Some of which develop the mind (teachers), the body (physicians), and the soul (missionaries). And throughout this time together the holy communion of dinner table conversation turns to the challenges in AIDS work.
The frustrations, the myths, the fact, the hopes, the plans of each worker for the people we are all growing to love. loving to grow?
Prevention to students?
Outreach to mothers?
Education of clubs?
I believe the key is behavior change. With something as abstract as a disease that takes time to infiltrate the body's defenses it seems education lacks impact. But how do you break the chains of tradition?
Hope of the future is often clouded by present horrors.
So how do you escape when trapped?
I believe behavior change is a direct result of relationship influence. Anytime I followed through with a decision it was based on the influence of my family and friends. Influences of encouragement. of fear. desire to imitate or to shed any resemblance.
So it seems that this united people of Zambia must unite with an Influence. People must come together to create behavior change.
For if one can infect so many with a disease than for hope of health to be contagious One must become Two.
Them must become Us.
You must become Me.
Food must become Talk.
Prevent.
Outreach.
Educate.
Above all, Relate.
Holy communion dinner table conversation - Where hope develops the mind/body/soul to change.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Juggling Thoughts
Help me.
His words are rattling in my mind like a continuous pinball machine.
The sound of them. The meaning of them. The honesty is the request.
Where is your pride? Help yourself!
Sustainable Development.
Teach me how to help myself. Help me to help me.
When you give are you supposed to care what the person does with the gift?
What is policy but the prevention of a broken heart and the redistribution of guilt?
_______________________________________
Lately people have been commenting on my walk. Ive never really thought about it. I walk how I feel. Agreenar loves it and says I walk like a soldier. Which makes me think of high steps and precision. Neither of which are my favorite things. So perhaps it has to do with confidence. Are you a head high and shoulders back or a looking at the grit in the ground type walker?
Im a roamer. My head is high so my vision can roam the sky. clouds, birds, the position of the sun. My eyesight darts among the tree trunks and I nestle my dreams in the leaves.
In small town life people always ask where your headed. Its disconcerting to them when I say I dont know. So sometimes I say the school or the clinic or my home. Depending on which direction Im meandering in. yes, meandering. This is how I walk. Sure, sometimes I have meetings and then I ride my bike. Because if Im supposed to be there then I would rather be There and not on my way. Which is why I like living where Im not supposed to be anywhere, because then its like I can be everywhere.
Meandering through towns, villages, roads and paths.
Through relationships, conversations, decisions.
A destination brings limitation.
My soul is shut up in confinement as the adventure of breath steadies.
Steady breath is disconcerting.
It inhales expectation.
It exhales results.
Yes, the way that I walk is meandering breath.
shallow and deep, short and drawn out, staggered and haughty, exasperating and demanding.
My breath
the barometer of my vision.
Is the Compass
of my footprints
Meandering through this disconcerting life.
His words are rattling in my mind like a continuous pinball machine.
The sound of them. The meaning of them. The honesty is the request.
Where is your pride? Help yourself!
Sustainable Development.
Teach me how to help myself. Help me to help me.
When you give are you supposed to care what the person does with the gift?
What is policy but the prevention of a broken heart and the redistribution of guilt?
_______________________________________
Lately people have been commenting on my walk. Ive never really thought about it. I walk how I feel. Agreenar loves it and says I walk like a soldier. Which makes me think of high steps and precision. Neither of which are my favorite things. So perhaps it has to do with confidence. Are you a head high and shoulders back or a looking at the grit in the ground type walker?
Im a roamer. My head is high so my vision can roam the sky. clouds, birds, the position of the sun. My eyesight darts among the tree trunks and I nestle my dreams in the leaves.
In small town life people always ask where your headed. Its disconcerting to them when I say I dont know. So sometimes I say the school or the clinic or my home. Depending on which direction Im meandering in. yes, meandering. This is how I walk. Sure, sometimes I have meetings and then I ride my bike. Because if Im supposed to be there then I would rather be There and not on my way. Which is why I like living where Im not supposed to be anywhere, because then its like I can be everywhere.
Meandering through towns, villages, roads and paths.
Through relationships, conversations, decisions.
A destination brings limitation.
My soul is shut up in confinement as the adventure of breath steadies.
Steady breath is disconcerting.
It inhales expectation.
It exhales results.
Yes, the way that I walk is meandering breath.
shallow and deep, short and drawn out, staggered and haughty, exasperating and demanding.
My breath
the barometer of my vision.
Is the Compass
of my footprints
Meandering through this disconcerting life.
Friday, November 14, 2008
2 Days in a Row!
So I had to come back into town today because damn cows broke into Agreenar's garden and ate everything. So Im buying seed and food for us. And you people are blessed with another story that I wrote awhile back. Im thinking about staying the night so maybe I will post again tomorrow. but no promises...the old korean man sitting next to me just answered his phone, the ring tone was 'the boots with the fur' song. WOW!
Hankering for Ammenities
Two seasoned PC vets, Persian and Polish, cycled to my hut for a day visit. They were amazed at my lack of ammenities. I was surprised there were such things as ammenities in this country.
"ya know, things with batteries." i dont have any batteries.
"no ipod, no radio, no magazines from home, no game boy." says Polish. "And (gasp) your books are mostly non-fiction. You dont even have a fork." Persian, looking very concerned for my mental health, says "What do you do when you get bored?" oh, I get hankerings. "you what?"
Sometimes I get these hankerings. Its not so much a wanting to do something or even a need. Its like a subconscious obligation manifesting itself in your physical body. It is indeed a hankering. The other night I was thinking I was going to sleep. I had blown out the candles, tucked myself inside the force field mos net and yet I had a hankering. I should have known it was coming since I had a boring day but the muscles in-between my shoulder blades were twitching. Tossing and turning and singing a lullaby had no effect. It was Slim Jim time.
Slim Jims. Those slim sticks smoked snacks that require a snap! I had recently acquired a box of slim jims from my grandma. And much to my surprise even though the box advertised 5, when I opened it there were 7 sticks. The perfect amount for my hankering. But after three, I had another hankering.
This one came with a dilemna.
You see I really wanted a mountain dew. But since I live in the bush, there is nowhere to do the dew. (plenty of space to do the deed, but thats another blog)
But being resourceful like a good PCV I remembered I had some powdered drink mixes graciously bestowed upon me by my over-prepared pal. So I killed all the ants surrounding my water filter and set about measuring out my sugary powders into a sweet shake in accordance to what I imagined would be the eqivalent of mountain dew's delicious recipe. And using the scientific method of hypothesy, experiment and observation - - I am here to testify that if you drink lemonade and green tea with the aftertaste of slim jims still tinkling your tastebuds, while chanting (do the dew, do the dew) in your mind -- it does in fact seem like one could possibly be drinking a third world's version of Mountain Dew.
The vets werent that impressed. So I mentioned that Im writing a book.
"about what?"
the meaning of life.
"so about nothing?" polish deduced.
or everything, the two really arent that different.
Then Persian stood, "Well, I have a hankering for a Super Maheo." Since Im still new to the Zambian snack culture, I had no idea what a Super Maheo was. Only that it made me think of Super Mario Brothers. Which made me remember Polish inferring that some bastard in country had a game boy. Knowing I should take this opportunity to support a fellow PCV's hankering (and gather more information on possible ammenities) we started walking to Shady Ave.
Shady Ave is a brisk 10 min stroll from my hut. If you like taking brisk strolls in the middle of the day. I dont, so I rarely venture out to this business district.
During the walk Persian took the time to describe in unneccessary detail the ins and outs of Super Maheo --"an energy drink manufactured in Zambian's thriving national capital out of maize and fruit flavors. strawberry banana being the best and buttercream the worst" --before I could interject with the fact that neither butter nor cream were fruits, we arrived at the ave.
Polish marched confidently into the first shop and as I meekly followed my eyes burst open with glee. boom (zam soap), sugar, flour, biscutts, girlfriend (zam lotion), etc. Who needs ammenities when I have Shady Ave! The propietor said he only had buttercream super maheo. Persian was noticebly disapointed. But to Polish's surprise, this lovely establishment was stocked with Yess! drinks.
So we purchased three bottles and stepped outside. I felt a bit betrayed as I had just spent time learning the history of Super Maheo and I didnt want to prostitute my tastebuds. But without having a proper introduction to Yess! I ripped off the lid and took a swig.
Polish was saying that this flavor happened to be one of her favorites. But I wasnt listening because I knew this flavor. It was like drinking lemonade and green tea with a slim jim aftertaste. Persian remarked, "yea, it reminds me of something back home." yea, I stammered, its the third world's version of attempting to do the dew.
Polish, "what?"
I mean, its my ammenity.
Persian and Polish, sweat glistening on their foreheads as we briskly strolled, beamed with the pride of vets witnessing the maturing of a rookie. Needless to say I was refreshed but now that I have this hankering for Super Mario brothers...
Hankering for Ammenities
Two seasoned PC vets, Persian and Polish, cycled to my hut for a day visit. They were amazed at my lack of ammenities. I was surprised there were such things as ammenities in this country.
"ya know, things with batteries." i dont have any batteries.
"no ipod, no radio, no magazines from home, no game boy." says Polish. "And (gasp) your books are mostly non-fiction. You dont even have a fork." Persian, looking very concerned for my mental health, says "What do you do when you get bored?" oh, I get hankerings. "you what?"
Sometimes I get these hankerings. Its not so much a wanting to do something or even a need. Its like a subconscious obligation manifesting itself in your physical body. It is indeed a hankering. The other night I was thinking I was going to sleep. I had blown out the candles, tucked myself inside the force field mos net and yet I had a hankering. I should have known it was coming since I had a boring day but the muscles in-between my shoulder blades were twitching. Tossing and turning and singing a lullaby had no effect. It was Slim Jim time.
Slim Jims. Those slim sticks smoked snacks that require a snap! I had recently acquired a box of slim jims from my grandma. And much to my surprise even though the box advertised 5, when I opened it there were 7 sticks. The perfect amount for my hankering. But after three, I had another hankering.
This one came with a dilemna.
You see I really wanted a mountain dew. But since I live in the bush, there is nowhere to do the dew. (plenty of space to do the deed, but thats another blog)
But being resourceful like a good PCV I remembered I had some powdered drink mixes graciously bestowed upon me by my over-prepared pal. So I killed all the ants surrounding my water filter and set about measuring out my sugary powders into a sweet shake in accordance to what I imagined would be the eqivalent of mountain dew's delicious recipe. And using the scientific method of hypothesy, experiment and observation - - I am here to testify that if you drink lemonade and green tea with the aftertaste of slim jims still tinkling your tastebuds, while chanting (do the dew, do the dew) in your mind -- it does in fact seem like one could possibly be drinking a third world's version of Mountain Dew.
The vets werent that impressed. So I mentioned that Im writing a book.
"about what?"
the meaning of life.
"so about nothing?" polish deduced.
or everything, the two really arent that different.
Then Persian stood, "Well, I have a hankering for a Super Maheo." Since Im still new to the Zambian snack culture, I had no idea what a Super Maheo was. Only that it made me think of Super Mario Brothers. Which made me remember Polish inferring that some bastard in country had a game boy. Knowing I should take this opportunity to support a fellow PCV's hankering (and gather more information on possible ammenities) we started walking to Shady Ave.
Shady Ave is a brisk 10 min stroll from my hut. If you like taking brisk strolls in the middle of the day. I dont, so I rarely venture out to this business district.
During the walk Persian took the time to describe in unneccessary detail the ins and outs of Super Maheo --"an energy drink manufactured in Zambian's thriving national capital out of maize and fruit flavors. strawberry banana being the best and buttercream the worst" --before I could interject with the fact that neither butter nor cream were fruits, we arrived at the ave.
Polish marched confidently into the first shop and as I meekly followed my eyes burst open with glee. boom (zam soap), sugar, flour, biscutts, girlfriend (zam lotion), etc. Who needs ammenities when I have Shady Ave! The propietor said he only had buttercream super maheo. Persian was noticebly disapointed. But to Polish's surprise, this lovely establishment was stocked with Yess! drinks.
So we purchased three bottles and stepped outside. I felt a bit betrayed as I had just spent time learning the history of Super Maheo and I didnt want to prostitute my tastebuds. But without having a proper introduction to Yess! I ripped off the lid and took a swig.
Polish was saying that this flavor happened to be one of her favorites. But I wasnt listening because I knew this flavor. It was like drinking lemonade and green tea with a slim jim aftertaste. Persian remarked, "yea, it reminds me of something back home." yea, I stammered, its the third world's version of attempting to do the dew.
Polish, "what?"
I mean, its my ammenity.
Persian and Polish, sweat glistening on their foreheads as we briskly strolled, beamed with the pride of vets witnessing the maturing of a rookie. Needless to say I was refreshed but now that I have this hankering for Super Mario brothers...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Mario Kart
(dedicated to Axel)
Well by now its no secret that Im an excellent bike rider. Part of the thrill is riding by those mere pedestrians and noticing their eyes widen while getting a full view of my kneecaps. Because I wear long shorts and not a long skirt. Dont call me a rebel, Im a freebird!
Anyways, after successfully maneuvering the main roads I decided it was time to take it to the bush. And now I dominate every footpath cutting between fields and trees. The great thing about riding in fields is the raised ground that make the rows. Its like a bunch of speed bumps lined up for me to race over.
And that is exactly what I do.
I race over the bumps just like in Mario Kart and Ive even started throwing stuff behind me. Which turned into a bad idea rather quickly.
You see, sometimes kids chase bikes. Its like the third world's version of kids and the ice cream truck. Except I wasnt playing an annoying and enticing song...and the kids were in for more of a trick rather than a treat.
Well you can imagine what was coming when I started chucking the hollowed shells of fruits over my shoulder while declaring in a high-pitched voice "Im the best" just like Toad passing that bastard Wario.
And just like the Princess (sporting a smirk just because she is the only girl) on of the kids whipped out their slingshot. At this point Im extrememly grateful for two things. 1. Peace Corps makes us wear helmets. 2. Big sunglasses were back in so I had substantial eye protection.
I knew just how important this protection was because my sister had once been hit in the eye by a punk kid and I knew they would actually shoot at me because of an incident back during training a few months prior.
(thats right, this situation was in no way a rookie mistake)
I was hanging out outside the local bar with my friend. While we sipped Castles (the cheaper but surprisingly tastier Zambian beer) I practiced my new slingshot. The slingshot was made by my buddy Philip, the only fat kid in Africa.
A group of young boys peaked their heads around the corner of the bar and flashed the up-to-no-good grins that only young boys and foreign kids have perfected. Then the tallest led the group out to walk in front of me like those ducks you shoot at the fair. They each carried a slingshot. It started innocently enough. I was laughing and they were laughing. We were hiding behind trees. But then I guess our aim just got better or the Castle soaked in enough to sufficiently warn me:
This was no longer a playground.
This was a battleground.
My friend had decided we should head back. She is the sane one while slightly buzzed. I, on the other hand, and The Punisher.
So as we turn to leave and my bitterness is rising because I wanted to stay and play, I got hit square in the back of the neck.
And I lost control. Knowing my throwing arm was much more reliable, I ditched my slingshot and started throwing rocks.
I was throwing rocks at children. African children, which is worse because everyone grows up feeling guilty for them. "Dont waste your food! African children are starving." "Hang up your clothes! African children are naked."
Well, African children have good aim!
My friend had already considered the method of buying our freedom from being stoned. She held up salad cookies and as the kids enjoyed their treat we ran away. literally, ran.
If I was ashamed back then, I was mortified I found myself in the same situation. And this time without a friend.
I needed a boost. One of those freaky mushrooms that give you extra speed so I could ZoomZoom out of the danger zone. So I thought of something that ignites just as much fire. The Brazilian-Argentinian futbol feud. My legs pumped for Ronaldinho.
And I sped through the rows, jumping over half broken maize stalks (wondering why they couldnt watch Barney like 'normal' kids) and cursing the fact that these kids know where I live.
And thats when I thought it was my skin to blame. They knew me, I stuck out. They didnt chase all the other bikes, only mine. It must be my revealing kneecaps!
Maybe next time I'll ride in white skinny jeans.
_______________________________________________
Not everyday is a funny day. But I guess I just find the funny stories easier to explain. Humor makes sense to me. Things like poverty, sickness, grief, starvation do not make sense. The swollen bellies of babies. The patches of raw skin scabbed with disease lurking underneath.
Missing hair, missing teeth, missing nails.
A father's request for lotion to soothe his child's aching sores. A mother desperately selling the rooster for money to take her daughter to the hospital for medicine.
Im surprised when I see a child with shoes.
Im surprised when a man declares his job and by the look of his cleanly pressed trousers he really takes his responsibility seriously.
The old and the young. A whole generation missing between.
And they come to me
Asking
Pleading
Laughing
Giving
Dying
And I teach. I give what I have but not always cheerfully. How can you smile when your feeding a group of kids grilled cheese sandwiches and they stare, confused, trying to figure out 'what is cheese.'
How can you smile when your explaining oral rehydration salts to a mother so her son wont literally waste away?
How can I ever think that its just a job?
Well by now its no secret that Im an excellent bike rider. Part of the thrill is riding by those mere pedestrians and noticing their eyes widen while getting a full view of my kneecaps. Because I wear long shorts and not a long skirt. Dont call me a rebel, Im a freebird!
Anyways, after successfully maneuvering the main roads I decided it was time to take it to the bush. And now I dominate every footpath cutting between fields and trees. The great thing about riding in fields is the raised ground that make the rows. Its like a bunch of speed bumps lined up for me to race over.
And that is exactly what I do.
I race over the bumps just like in Mario Kart and Ive even started throwing stuff behind me. Which turned into a bad idea rather quickly.
You see, sometimes kids chase bikes. Its like the third world's version of kids and the ice cream truck. Except I wasnt playing an annoying and enticing song...and the kids were in for more of a trick rather than a treat.
Well you can imagine what was coming when I started chucking the hollowed shells of fruits over my shoulder while declaring in a high-pitched voice "Im the best" just like Toad passing that bastard Wario.
And just like the Princess (sporting a smirk just because she is the only girl) on of the kids whipped out their slingshot. At this point Im extrememly grateful for two things. 1. Peace Corps makes us wear helmets. 2. Big sunglasses were back in so I had substantial eye protection.
I knew just how important this protection was because my sister had once been hit in the eye by a punk kid and I knew they would actually shoot at me because of an incident back during training a few months prior.
(thats right, this situation was in no way a rookie mistake)
I was hanging out outside the local bar with my friend. While we sipped Castles (the cheaper but surprisingly tastier Zambian beer) I practiced my new slingshot. The slingshot was made by my buddy Philip, the only fat kid in Africa.
A group of young boys peaked their heads around the corner of the bar and flashed the up-to-no-good grins that only young boys and foreign kids have perfected. Then the tallest led the group out to walk in front of me like those ducks you shoot at the fair. They each carried a slingshot. It started innocently enough. I was laughing and they were laughing. We were hiding behind trees. But then I guess our aim just got better or the Castle soaked in enough to sufficiently warn me:
This was no longer a playground.
This was a battleground.
My friend had decided we should head back. She is the sane one while slightly buzzed. I, on the other hand, and The Punisher.
So as we turn to leave and my bitterness is rising because I wanted to stay and play, I got hit square in the back of the neck.
And I lost control. Knowing my throwing arm was much more reliable, I ditched my slingshot and started throwing rocks.
I was throwing rocks at children. African children, which is worse because everyone grows up feeling guilty for them. "Dont waste your food! African children are starving." "Hang up your clothes! African children are naked."
Well, African children have good aim!
My friend had already considered the method of buying our freedom from being stoned. She held up salad cookies and as the kids enjoyed their treat we ran away. literally, ran.
If I was ashamed back then, I was mortified I found myself in the same situation. And this time without a friend.
I needed a boost. One of those freaky mushrooms that give you extra speed so I could ZoomZoom out of the danger zone. So I thought of something that ignites just as much fire. The Brazilian-Argentinian futbol feud. My legs pumped for Ronaldinho.
And I sped through the rows, jumping over half broken maize stalks (wondering why they couldnt watch Barney like 'normal' kids) and cursing the fact that these kids know where I live.
And thats when I thought it was my skin to blame. They knew me, I stuck out. They didnt chase all the other bikes, only mine. It must be my revealing kneecaps!
Maybe next time I'll ride in white skinny jeans.
_______________________________________________
Not everyday is a funny day. But I guess I just find the funny stories easier to explain. Humor makes sense to me. Things like poverty, sickness, grief, starvation do not make sense. The swollen bellies of babies. The patches of raw skin scabbed with disease lurking underneath.
Missing hair, missing teeth, missing nails.
A father's request for lotion to soothe his child's aching sores. A mother desperately selling the rooster for money to take her daughter to the hospital for medicine.
Im surprised when I see a child with shoes.
Im surprised when a man declares his job and by the look of his cleanly pressed trousers he really takes his responsibility seriously.
The old and the young. A whole generation missing between.
And they come to me
Asking
Pleading
Laughing
Giving
Dying
And I teach. I give what I have but not always cheerfully. How can you smile when your feeding a group of kids grilled cheese sandwiches and they stare, confused, trying to figure out 'what is cheese.'
How can you smile when your explaining oral rehydration salts to a mother so her son wont literally waste away?
How can I ever think that its just a job?
Monday, October 27, 2008
Independence Day
Most awkward moments can saved with laughter. It cant be just a smile. Because smiles hide sad eyes. And it cant be just a word. Because voices hide broken hearts. And for me, there is no easier way to make someone laugh than to dance. Since my skin color in Africa is The Preemptor of awkward moments, there is always opportunity for dance and always the blessing of a laugh. Which was I greatly anticipated October 24th, Zambian Independence Day.
I was a guest, invited to experience independence at the basic school. There would be food, music and games. All the things needed for a good party. Upon arrival I settled into the teacher's section, known by fancy blue plastic lawn chairs, and listened to the choir. The songs encouraging unity were interrupted with short skits performed by the Anti-Aids club. A real downer if you ask me, but being a health volunteer I encouraged the message.
We took a break for tea and I was delighted to enjoy coffee and bread since I had depleted my own supply a few weeks prior. Mrs. Hamuyube asked me, "How do Americans celebrate their independence?" My reply, "We blow up stuff." It was a good cross-cultural exchange. Chatting with the other teachers over this mid-morning snack allowed me to reminisce over my early education days - peering into the staff lounge and seeing Mrs. Robinson vacuuming. My teacher, vacuuming?! Moms were supposed to vacuum. Who knew teachers did normal people stuff.
Well, if in 2nd grade I thought a teacher vacuuming was strange, these African teachers were about to blow my mind. Mr. Mutinta, a short young teacher with serious eyes swollen behind wire frames, came up to me and whispered, "You will judge." Noting the possible beginning stage of an awkward moment, I whispered back, "iiyi." yes.
Then Akon started blaring from a stereo outside the office and Zambian independence day really started. It was like all the performances up til now were polite protocol. Now it was time to party. I was led to the table with the stereo and a clear view overlooking the courtyard where the 1,000 pupils were packed together. There was an open area between them and me and with the music blaring, my blood started pumping faster as I thought, "oh my lisa marie presely, do I get to judge a dance contest!!" The other teachers had no idea how qualified I was. I spent hours watching America's Best Dance Crew before journeying to Africa. I listen to Usher and I have a Chris Brown music video on my ipod. Everytime a commercial came on advertising So You Think You Can Dance? I always answered, duh YEA. All the students were dancing in place and as I was given a scorecard I went through the lines that would be my "honest" reaction.
"Watch your timing." "You got to feel the beat and make me believe what your puttin down." "Yea, thats fresh."
The d.j. switched to Shaggy and I was nodding my head to the beat. Then all the pupils stopped dancing and stared simultaneously to my left. Instinctively, I followed the gaze and saw one girl step out of a classroom looking stoic with white lipstick smeared on her lips and one hand on her hip...she walked forward and turned a few times so as to swirl her skirt and walked back into the room and as another girl stepped in the doorframe, I knew.
This was no dance contest.
This was a Model Competition.
And Im the judge. Hell Yes!
How did they know I was even moreso qualified? America's Next Top Model and Project Runway marathons. I mean even my brother and sister are practically models. I was so estatic that the music change from annoying english tunes to annoying Tonga beats didnt phase me. I put on my shades and sat rigid as posture of model judges should always be noted. Then I looked at my scorecard, there were categories, four to be precise. This first one I was barely able to concentrate on becaue of my enthusiasm but since it was labeled "intro" I took it as an allowance for my hyper-emotional state.
Quickly came the next category, Casual. And as only villagers would, the six contestants sauntered out in long skirts and fancy flats. Im judging.
Category three was traditional tribal wear and included some age-inappropiate dancing at the end of the runway. By this time I had my top two favorites and I was expecting to be stunned with the final category: office wear.
The Short High-Stepper went first dressed in some green number that reminded me of sweet old church ladies on Easter morning. Second and third were Miss Blase and Miss Risque, respectively. Followed by Blase II and my two favorites: Stocked Sans Stacked (whose icy stare made my fashion sense freeze) and Cool Runnings (whose walk was so smooth she could have been gliding on one of those damn moving lanes inside airport terminals.)
I sat tallying up my scores and handed my card to Mr. Mutinta. He motioned for me to follow the other women teachers. Since I didnt want to miss the announcement of the winner, I was reluctant to follow, but follow I did. The d.j. switched back to Akon and the pupils resumed their dancing and thats when I reached the models' changing room.
Apparently, we female teachers were supposed to model too. Now this was definitely not something I signed up for. As I was staring with wide-opeened eyes at the ceiling the girls giggled while they wrapped tribal fabrics around my white skin. The teachers looked beautiful and I looked a fool with a citenge hiding my trousers.
But like I knew Heidi Klum would be proud, I led the teacher's walk in front of the staring children and made it to the end of the runway with my head held high. What happened next was not planned but the beat carried my legs to the crowd of now laughing children and they encircled me as we all danced for Zambian Independence.
Awkward Moment October 24:
I came.
I danced.
I conquered.
I was a guest, invited to experience independence at the basic school. There would be food, music and games. All the things needed for a good party. Upon arrival I settled into the teacher's section, known by fancy blue plastic lawn chairs, and listened to the choir. The songs encouraging unity were interrupted with short skits performed by the Anti-Aids club. A real downer if you ask me, but being a health volunteer I encouraged the message.
We took a break for tea and I was delighted to enjoy coffee and bread since I had depleted my own supply a few weeks prior. Mrs. Hamuyube asked me, "How do Americans celebrate their independence?" My reply, "We blow up stuff." It was a good cross-cultural exchange. Chatting with the other teachers over this mid-morning snack allowed me to reminisce over my early education days - peering into the staff lounge and seeing Mrs. Robinson vacuuming. My teacher, vacuuming?! Moms were supposed to vacuum. Who knew teachers did normal people stuff.
Well, if in 2nd grade I thought a teacher vacuuming was strange, these African teachers were about to blow my mind. Mr. Mutinta, a short young teacher with serious eyes swollen behind wire frames, came up to me and whispered, "You will judge." Noting the possible beginning stage of an awkward moment, I whispered back, "iiyi." yes.
Then Akon started blaring from a stereo outside the office and Zambian independence day really started. It was like all the performances up til now were polite protocol. Now it was time to party. I was led to the table with the stereo and a clear view overlooking the courtyard where the 1,000 pupils were packed together. There was an open area between them and me and with the music blaring, my blood started pumping faster as I thought, "oh my lisa marie presely, do I get to judge a dance contest!!" The other teachers had no idea how qualified I was. I spent hours watching America's Best Dance Crew before journeying to Africa. I listen to Usher and I have a Chris Brown music video on my ipod. Everytime a commercial came on advertising So You Think You Can Dance? I always answered, duh YEA. All the students were dancing in place and as I was given a scorecard I went through the lines that would be my "honest" reaction.
"Watch your timing." "You got to feel the beat and make me believe what your puttin down." "Yea, thats fresh."
The d.j. switched to Shaggy and I was nodding my head to the beat. Then all the pupils stopped dancing and stared simultaneously to my left. Instinctively, I followed the gaze and saw one girl step out of a classroom looking stoic with white lipstick smeared on her lips and one hand on her hip...she walked forward and turned a few times so as to swirl her skirt and walked back into the room and as another girl stepped in the doorframe, I knew.
This was no dance contest.
This was a Model Competition.
And Im the judge. Hell Yes!
How did they know I was even moreso qualified? America's Next Top Model and Project Runway marathons. I mean even my brother and sister are practically models. I was so estatic that the music change from annoying english tunes to annoying Tonga beats didnt phase me. I put on my shades and sat rigid as posture of model judges should always be noted. Then I looked at my scorecard, there were categories, four to be precise. This first one I was barely able to concentrate on becaue of my enthusiasm but since it was labeled "intro" I took it as an allowance for my hyper-emotional state.
Quickly came the next category, Casual. And as only villagers would, the six contestants sauntered out in long skirts and fancy flats. Im judging.
Category three was traditional tribal wear and included some age-inappropiate dancing at the end of the runway. By this time I had my top two favorites and I was expecting to be stunned with the final category: office wear.
The Short High-Stepper went first dressed in some green number that reminded me of sweet old church ladies on Easter morning. Second and third were Miss Blase and Miss Risque, respectively. Followed by Blase II and my two favorites: Stocked Sans Stacked (whose icy stare made my fashion sense freeze) and Cool Runnings (whose walk was so smooth she could have been gliding on one of those damn moving lanes inside airport terminals.)
I sat tallying up my scores and handed my card to Mr. Mutinta. He motioned for me to follow the other women teachers. Since I didnt want to miss the announcement of the winner, I was reluctant to follow, but follow I did. The d.j. switched back to Akon and the pupils resumed their dancing and thats when I reached the models' changing room.
Apparently, we female teachers were supposed to model too. Now this was definitely not something I signed up for. As I was staring with wide-opeened eyes at the ceiling the girls giggled while they wrapped tribal fabrics around my white skin. The teachers looked beautiful and I looked a fool with a citenge hiding my trousers.
But like I knew Heidi Klum would be proud, I led the teacher's walk in front of the staring children and made it to the end of the runway with my head held high. What happened next was not planned but the beat carried my legs to the crowd of now laughing children and they encircled me as we all danced for Zambian Independence.
Awkward Moment October 24:
I came.
I danced.
I conquered.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Tropicals
"Lweendo, take off your tropicals and feel the earth." Agreenar called out to me. Reluctantly, I slipped off my flip-flops and stepped barefoot on African soil. In the middle of the day. In the middle of hot season.
Agreenar, beaming, sighed the Zambian sigh (equivalent to the sound on Sprite commericals. after the sip. before the tagline), "ah, feels nice. isnt it?" Playing through my mind like the opening to the Wonder Years was a nightmare slideshow of summer afternoons walking on hot asphalt to the park only to slide down burning metal rides meant to scorch the back of kiddies' knees. Nothing compared to Africa. In the middle of the day. In the middle of hot season.
"Peepe!" no, I scream. Jumping back into my tropicals I blush at her comment that Americans are weak. Yes, an Zambians are crazy.
Two weeks into this village life and what I feel is just beginning to sink in. Yes, my roommates are termites. Yes, I stay awake staring at the spiders crawling on my mosquitoe net. No, I havent killed anything with my machete...yet. And yes, walking to fetch water is a pain in the ass. But not with the three iwes tagging along. Ive just started to learn their names.
Jipego is probably my favorite. We have full conversations. Her speaking about something in Tonga. And me speaking about something else in English. Then there is Medium. Which is absolutely cruel. Who wants to go through life saying "Hi, Im C+. Who are you?" And then there is Vijay, of whom I have the bad habit of calling Vejayjay. I think its funny and she doesnt get it, so maybe its ok?
And then there was the day when (thanks to the last volunteer before me) three older kids came for help with their math homework. I know how to count my money and thats the extent of any calculations Ive done in years. But trying to save face I sat down with them. The two girls shoved their notebooks in my face and I looked down at numbers...mixed with letters...mixed with shapes.
What the hell is this?!
"Um, right. the lines on your triangle are very straight. And I like how you are using the letter "x", seeing as how you dont have that letter in your language."
Blank faces staring back at me.
I turned to the boy and he showed me his notebook. Fractions! Even worse. Fractions are the sole reason I dont cook. And without the scent of ingredients there was no way I could grasp the abstract directions.
Ashamed, and almost regretting all those years of making the shy girls do my homework, I told them I didnt know about math.
They looked down for a minute and then quickly asked me to bang my banjo. Now that is one thing I do know. So I brought out the guitar, they hid their notebook and we relaxed making up lyrics and enjoying the afternoon sans arithmetic.
It seems everyday Im given good alongside the suck. And I suppose, living in one of the poorest countries means you cant ever seperate the two. Because though Zambia is poor in material measurements, it is not in essence, poor in life.
Because life is one thing. It is now. It is the time of me and you and us. It isnt what I did yesterday, what I need to do today and the plan of action for tomorrow. It seems that outside of my American mind, time isnt actions, time isnt accomplishments. Its breathing, its laughing, its crying, its sleeping. Waking, eating and talking with the Walking souls around you. Time is the existence of life not the calculations of its progressions.
So take off your tropicals. And feel the earth. Its nice, isnt it?
Agreenar, beaming, sighed the Zambian sigh (equivalent to the sound on Sprite commericals. after the sip. before the tagline), "ah, feels nice. isnt it?" Playing through my mind like the opening to the Wonder Years was a nightmare slideshow of summer afternoons walking on hot asphalt to the park only to slide down burning metal rides meant to scorch the back of kiddies' knees. Nothing compared to Africa. In the middle of the day. In the middle of hot season.
"Peepe!" no, I scream. Jumping back into my tropicals I blush at her comment that Americans are weak. Yes, an Zambians are crazy.
Two weeks into this village life and what I feel is just beginning to sink in. Yes, my roommates are termites. Yes, I stay awake staring at the spiders crawling on my mosquitoe net. No, I havent killed anything with my machete...yet. And yes, walking to fetch water is a pain in the ass. But not with the three iwes tagging along. Ive just started to learn their names.
Jipego is probably my favorite. We have full conversations. Her speaking about something in Tonga. And me speaking about something else in English. Then there is Medium. Which is absolutely cruel. Who wants to go through life saying "Hi, Im C+. Who are you?" And then there is Vijay, of whom I have the bad habit of calling Vejayjay. I think its funny and she doesnt get it, so maybe its ok?
And then there was the day when (thanks to the last volunteer before me) three older kids came for help with their math homework. I know how to count my money and thats the extent of any calculations Ive done in years. But trying to save face I sat down with them. The two girls shoved their notebooks in my face and I looked down at numbers...mixed with letters...mixed with shapes.
What the hell is this?!
"Um, right. the lines on your triangle are very straight. And I like how you are using the letter "x", seeing as how you dont have that letter in your language."
Blank faces staring back at me.
I turned to the boy and he showed me his notebook. Fractions! Even worse. Fractions are the sole reason I dont cook. And without the scent of ingredients there was no way I could grasp the abstract directions.
Ashamed, and almost regretting all those years of making the shy girls do my homework, I told them I didnt know about math.
They looked down for a minute and then quickly asked me to bang my banjo. Now that is one thing I do know. So I brought out the guitar, they hid their notebook and we relaxed making up lyrics and enjoying the afternoon sans arithmetic.
It seems everyday Im given good alongside the suck. And I suppose, living in one of the poorest countries means you cant ever seperate the two. Because though Zambia is poor in material measurements, it is not in essence, poor in life.
Because life is one thing. It is now. It is the time of me and you and us. It isnt what I did yesterday, what I need to do today and the plan of action for tomorrow. It seems that outside of my American mind, time isnt actions, time isnt accomplishments. Its breathing, its laughing, its crying, its sleeping. Waking, eating and talking with the Walking souls around you. Time is the existence of life not the calculations of its progressions.
So take off your tropicals. And feel the earth. Its nice, isnt it?
Friday, September 26, 2008
Officially a PCV
Swear-in was today at the US ambassadors house in Lusaka. Everyone got all dressed up and it was a lot different to see all of us with make-up and skirts and the boys even wore suits. We will have tonight to celebrate and then early tomorrow we all pack in the land cruisers for our trips out to our provinces. I have to buy a bed and some kitchen stuff for my house and I should be moving into my village on Monday or Tuesday.
This past week was great. We had the last language test on Tuesday and I passed. But one of the girls in my group didnt, so its just 2 of us moving to Southern Province. (she has a week to study and try again and then she can move into her village). We also had final presentations to our technical HIV classes and everyone loved my impersonations of our teachers. On Wednesday we had the families come for cultural day and that was hilarious. They were all so proud of us and the food was awesome. There was a lot of dancing and I even had to give a speech in Tonga. Everyone laughed at the right spots so I guess it actually sounded like Tonga. sweet!
Last week we had to practice teaching at a nearby school and I taught 40 8th graders. I had them write down any questions about anything they wanted to know.
My favorite:
1. Is the WWF real or acting?
2. What is your phone number?
3. How does a girl feel when sleeping with a boy?
My answers:
1. Its acting until someone gets hurt. Then its real entertainment.
2. ah, but you are too young
3. It depends..........hahahaha I really talked about decision making and the different parts of a person that feels, like physcial/spiritual/emotional. awesome, i know.
So yea, Im headed out to the bush. Im allowed to leave for Thanksgiving so I will try to post then. Otherwise it wont be until December. So I guess, no news is good news.
I will write letters and please send me some because then I dont feel so lonely. Its been a good 9 weeks of training and Im ready to live by myself and learn alot, and hey maybe even teach a little.
God bless and Peace OUT!
Lweendo
This past week was great. We had the last language test on Tuesday and I passed. But one of the girls in my group didnt, so its just 2 of us moving to Southern Province. (she has a week to study and try again and then she can move into her village). We also had final presentations to our technical HIV classes and everyone loved my impersonations of our teachers. On Wednesday we had the families come for cultural day and that was hilarious. They were all so proud of us and the food was awesome. There was a lot of dancing and I even had to give a speech in Tonga. Everyone laughed at the right spots so I guess it actually sounded like Tonga. sweet!
Last week we had to practice teaching at a nearby school and I taught 40 8th graders. I had them write down any questions about anything they wanted to know.
My favorite:
1. Is the WWF real or acting?
2. What is your phone number?
3. How does a girl feel when sleeping with a boy?
My answers:
1. Its acting until someone gets hurt. Then its real entertainment.
2. ah, but you are too young
3. It depends..........hahahaha I really talked about decision making and the different parts of a person that feels, like physcial/spiritual/emotional. awesome, i know.
So yea, Im headed out to the bush. Im allowed to leave for Thanksgiving so I will try to post then. Otherwise it wont be until December. So I guess, no news is good news.
I will write letters and please send me some because then I dont feel so lonely. Its been a good 9 weeks of training and Im ready to live by myself and learn alot, and hey maybe even teach a little.
God bless and Peace OUT!
Lweendo
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Last Week of Training
This past week we have been busy finishing up language classes and technical training. This next week we have to pass final tests- im most excited about technical presentation. I plan on impersonating Fraser, Brother Mizhi and Ba Charles...our teachers. should be fun. On Wednesday the 24th we are bringing all of the families that have been hosting us together to cook an American meal and to exchange gifts. I already know my old man has been building me a chair and another grinding wooden thing that is used to make peanut butter, my favorite!!
Then on Thursday we move out and prepare for swear-in on Friday. Me and Carroll-Anne are getting traditional skirts tailored and it should be an ok time of feeling awkward at the ambassador's place. I have to give a speech in Tonga on Wednesday in front of the group so I gotta practice that too.
Older volunteers that are returning to America held an auction of all of their stuff. I got an Oxford dictionary/thesaurus for a hug, a washcloth for a high-five and a beach boys tape by giving my intimidating mean mug face.
Make sure to check out my new address posted, its in Southern Province. I can still get stuff at the Lusaka office but I wont be back there until Jan. 12.
Hope everything is great back home. Enjoy electricity for me!
Peace Out,
Lweendo
Then on Thursday we move out and prepare for swear-in on Friday. Me and Carroll-Anne are getting traditional skirts tailored and it should be an ok time of feeling awkward at the ambassador's place. I have to give a speech in Tonga on Wednesday in front of the group so I gotta practice that too.
Older volunteers that are returning to America held an auction of all of their stuff. I got an Oxford dictionary/thesaurus for a hug, a washcloth for a high-five and a beach boys tape by giving my intimidating mean mug face.
Make sure to check out my new address posted, its in Southern Province. I can still get stuff at the Lusaka office but I wont be back there until Jan. 12.
Hope everything is great back home. Enjoy electricity for me!
Peace Out,
Lweendo
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Second Site Visit
We are in Southern Province for a couple weeks staying with a volunteer one year in and also visiting our new villages. I will be in Dimbwe which is 50k from town. Good thing Im such a fierce biker! The volunteer we stayed with this past week has shown me some great cooking tips. homemade tortillas and salsa are a nice break from nshima and cabbage.
A couple days ago we had a meeting with a traditional healer. He said the most common ailments that he cures are when a man doesnt have the apetite for marriage (zambian way of saying homosexuality), a spouse has too many dreams of her deceased partner, and bad luck. Most of the treatment involves grounding roots and boiling the mixture with water. Then either breathing the steam, drinking the mixture or making small cuts on your body with razor blades (they call them tattoos) and being splashed with the mixture.
We asked where he learned these remedies and he said he has dreams and visions of certain sicknesses and their correct treatments. Now up to this I was very respectful and interested. But then he mentioned how he helps a woman that cant conceive. Basically it involves a root and certain cavaties of the boody. At that point I had a "coughing attack from the dust" and had to take a break. I mean seriously, adoption is always an option.
He showed us the jars that he keeps his concoctions in. Noticing the jar labeled "Die and Push" we asked what it treated. The healer told us about "talking coffin" This happens when a person dies of unknown causes because it is believed that someone is resposible. So the healer makes tattoos on the body, rubs in the mixture, and asks it to lead them to the murderor. People then carry the coffin around the village and they are led to the guilty person. African village ouji board?
So in reflection: it was very bizarre and |I think about the Christians that convince themselves of a fair God that probably supernaturally helps these isolated tribes...maybe his dreams are real but Im not trying out any roots.
Peace Out
Lweendo (my tonga name "journey")
In other news I had to say goodbye to Trent, my best buddy in the PC. He decided to take a different direction in life. I respect his decision and Im very thankful for his friendship over these past few weeks. And since your probably reading this "Im a woman for change so I will beat you as my husband!" I miss you pesi mbubo badela, ndanywa mosi zyotatwe in your honor! Love, Ba B
A couple days ago we had a meeting with a traditional healer. He said the most common ailments that he cures are when a man doesnt have the apetite for marriage (zambian way of saying homosexuality), a spouse has too many dreams of her deceased partner, and bad luck. Most of the treatment involves grounding roots and boiling the mixture with water. Then either breathing the steam, drinking the mixture or making small cuts on your body with razor blades (they call them tattoos) and being splashed with the mixture.
We asked where he learned these remedies and he said he has dreams and visions of certain sicknesses and their correct treatments. Now up to this I was very respectful and interested. But then he mentioned how he helps a woman that cant conceive. Basically it involves a root and certain cavaties of the boody. At that point I had a "coughing attack from the dust" and had to take a break. I mean seriously, adoption is always an option.
He showed us the jars that he keeps his concoctions in. Noticing the jar labeled "Die and Push" we asked what it treated. The healer told us about "talking coffin" This happens when a person dies of unknown causes because it is believed that someone is resposible. So the healer makes tattoos on the body, rubs in the mixture, and asks it to lead them to the murderor. People then carry the coffin around the village and they are led to the guilty person. African village ouji board?
So in reflection: it was very bizarre and |I think about the Christians that convince themselves of a fair God that probably supernaturally helps these isolated tribes...maybe his dreams are real but Im not trying out any roots.
Peace Out
Lweendo (my tonga name "journey")
In other news I had to say goodbye to Trent, my best buddy in the PC. He decided to take a different direction in life. I respect his decision and Im very thankful for his friendship over these past few weeks. And since your probably reading this "Im a woman for change so I will beat you as my husband!" I miss you pesi mbubo badela, ndanywa mosi zyotatwe in your honor! Love, Ba B
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Training Halftime
We are halfway through training. Time is moving quickly as we study our languages and get training in the technical aspects as well. Im learning Tonga and I will be going somewhere in the Southern Province. We just had our site interviews yesterday and we will get our post assignment on Thursday!
And then on Friday we will go visit our sites for 2 weeks to see what we think of it. Village/town life is cool so far but im excited to get back to the bush.
The family that i live with go by the name Sikangila. 7 of their 12 children live with us, i have my hut on the compound. they cook my food and boil water for my bath twice a day. When I get tired of trying to speak Tonga I pull out my guitar (banjo here) and the old man loves to tap his foot to the beat.
My close friends are Trent and Carroll-Anne. Or Tent and Annie and Blitelia as we have now been called by the Zambians. We bike to our training together and they love my "Never Surrender" motto. I wear the PUNISHER t-shirt when I bike and yesterday it totally mocked me as I fell for the first time. Just scrapes and bruises, no worries even though it was intense.
We had a gardening session and I was in charge of the machete. Me and Mindy had to gather dry material for the compost pile and I found and awesome tree with dry leavces. So |I went to hacking away on the branches and then me and Mindy started itching. ooops, so the leaves that were raining down all had tiny spikes on them that stuck to our skin and clothes. my bad!
besides those mishaps Im enjoying the food and clothing and the entire Zambian culture. BTW, if you are in class and need to use the bathroom, you just say "sorry, i must go wash my feet."
Trent taught our langugage teacher the phrase WTF! so that has become a good joke. There is a rumor we get to go to a store with electricity this week and Im hoping to get some cheese! Ive had 11 shots so far and learned about all the ways we can die but it sounds like the PC takes our safety seriously so no worries.
I hope everyone is doing greawt in the States. Yay for Zach starting college. And thanks to Amy and Maetzin for your letters. your replies on our their way.
God bless and Peace OUT!
And then on Friday we will go visit our sites for 2 weeks to see what we think of it. Village/town life is cool so far but im excited to get back to the bush.
The family that i live with go by the name Sikangila. 7 of their 12 children live with us, i have my hut on the compound. they cook my food and boil water for my bath twice a day. When I get tired of trying to speak Tonga I pull out my guitar (banjo here) and the old man loves to tap his foot to the beat.
My close friends are Trent and Carroll-Anne. Or Tent and Annie and Blitelia as we have now been called by the Zambians. We bike to our training together and they love my "Never Surrender" motto. I wear the PUNISHER t-shirt when I bike and yesterday it totally mocked me as I fell for the first time. Just scrapes and bruises, no worries even though it was intense.
We had a gardening session and I was in charge of the machete. Me and Mindy had to gather dry material for the compost pile and I found and awesome tree with dry leavces. So |I went to hacking away on the branches and then me and Mindy started itching. ooops, so the leaves that were raining down all had tiny spikes on them that stuck to our skin and clothes. my bad!
besides those mishaps Im enjoying the food and clothing and the entire Zambian culture. BTW, if you are in class and need to use the bathroom, you just say "sorry, i must go wash my feet."
Trent taught our langugage teacher the phrase WTF! so that has become a good joke. There is a rumor we get to go to a store with electricity this week and Im hoping to get some cheese! Ive had 11 shots so far and learned about all the ways we can die but it sounds like the PC takes our safety seriously so no worries.
I hope everyone is doing greawt in the States. Yay for Zach starting college. And thanks to Amy and Maetzin for your letters. your replies on our their way.
God bless and Peace OUT!
Saturday, August 2, 2008
First Week
This past week they sent us out in small groups to visit a volunteer and see what life as a PCV is really like. To welcome us the community wanted to feed us a guinea fowl. Which was cool...except they gave us the job of hunting and killing it. The five of us grabbed small rocks and ran after the bird (like a chicken) and it flew into a tree. So we threw all the rocks but it took Ba Jolie and his slingshot to shoot it out of the tree. Trent grabbed the fallen bird, stepped on its wing and went to work slicing off its neck. I thought I was more hard-core but it was tough to watch. Then, me and Mindy had to dip it in boiling water and pull out all the feathers...which takes a long time. But it was all worth it! Guinea Fowl is good stuff.
We also got to meet the chief but we had to walk 8k one way. I brought stupid shoes and I have cuts and blisters but its all cool. I got to meet a real African Chief. He has 5 wives and 25 kids. yikes!
We move in with our families tomorrow. They will take care of us throughout training which is until Sept. 28. Hope things are going well in America!
We also got to meet the chief but we had to walk 8k one way. I brought stupid shoes and I have cuts and blisters but its all cool. I got to meet a real African Chief. He has 5 wives and 25 kids. yikes!
We move in with our families tomorrow. They will take care of us throughout training which is until Sept. 28. Hope things are going well in America!
Friday, July 25, 2008
D.C. Airport
Just a quick note. Staging went well and everyone is really nice. They all have done amazing things in the US and abroad. The best piece of advice I heard was "Cross the river in a crowd and the crocidile will not get you." umm, sweet! There are 33 of us, 1 already dropped out to get married.
I gotta go get on the plane now. Thank you for the great send off, I feel very blessed and loved by everyone.
Peace OUT
I gotta go get on the plane now. Thank you for the great send off, I feel very blessed and loved by everyone.
Peace OUT
Friday, June 27, 2008
Peace Corps Update
Im going to Zambia! I will be a HIV/AIDS Community Mobilizer...no clue what that means. The Peace Corps definition: Your task will be to help the communities to understand the basics of HIV/AIDS, identify means of prevention, care and support, prioritize, plan, implement and manage these interventions in a sustainable manner.
Because that isnt intimidating at all.
I leave July 23 for staging (a short orientation to meet other volunteers and get lots of shots) in D.C. and then we all fly out July 25 to Lusaka, Zambia. The first three months is intensive training in a local language, technical skills and cross-cultural awareness. And then we are sent to our villages for the actual 2 years of Peace Corps service.
Im doing my best to prepare and see everyone one last time so email me or call. Im hanging out in the Bay Area filling out paperwork, packing and drinking a lot of red wine. And please PLEASE write a letter to me in Africa. But most of all...send up some prayers for my safety and this great opportunity to learn about my little self in the Lord's big world.
B. Fresh
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Sunday Sermonette
She sits in the front row pew. She sits pristine, nails polished and hair highlighted.
I think its so she doesnt have to look at anyone else. I think its so she doesnt have to see people look at her.
She stares into space, occasionally rolling her eyes and the shame that seeps through her pores project her past as fattened regret - growing heavy with the stress of each patterend day.
And Im tired of feeling pity. And Im tired of justifying.
Im tired of wondering if she is the mold for which destiny has made me the clay.
I think its so she doesnt have to look at anyone else. I think its so she doesnt have to see people look at her.
She stares into space, occasionally rolling her eyes and the shame that seeps through her pores project her past as fattened regret - growing heavy with the stress of each patterend day.
And Im tired of feeling pity. And Im tired of justifying.
Im tired of wondering if she is the mold for which destiny has made me the clay.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
9:15
9:15
A time. A place. A prescription.
The hours between almost let you forget.
9:15
A definition. A description. A precaution.
The answer to a question without a decision.
9:15
A blessing. A curse. A solution.
The stigmatized facilitator to a haunting hindrance.
9:15
A time. A place. A prescription.
The hours between almost let you forget.
9:15
A definition. A description. A precaution.
The answer to a question without a decision.
9:15
A blessing. A curse. A solution.
The stigmatized facilitator to a haunting hindrance.
9:15
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Dinner Party
I’m not really that great at inviting people over. I usually like it when there is a group of people relaxing and enjoying each other’s company but I suck at remembering to ask the people to come in the first place. This fact aside, the Parental Units were leaving town so my Mini-Me brother and I decided to have a mildly entertaining dinner party. After we failed at getting our older sibling to attend (and by attend, we meant cook) I knew it was up to me to financially and humorously fund this feast.
Why?
Because Mini-Me had invited his two best-friends (T-Bone who resembles Achilles the Brad Pitt version and Sunshine the California Golden Boy) and his current infatuation (the younger sister of my ex-classmate who was a perfect eccentric queen) which meant he was gonna try to impress her by lame conversation and over-seasoned cooking.
Damn it.
To even out this hormonal company I invited a family friend who was home from the Army and even though he is our sister’s ex-boyfriend Mini-Me and I still enjoy laughing at his good natured Mexican expense.
First stop, the grocery store with Mini-Me and the girl. I know that I should give her a chance to out-cool her eccentric queen sibling so I excuse her high heels on an average high school day as simple fashion in a player hatin’ world.
Sidenote: I like people based on two criteria. The first being that they laugh at my wit and the second being that they answer my questions intelligently.
She laughed at the way I carried the green bean cans. And then suggested we get salad. While I stood there trying to decide how she had usurped my two criteria, Mini-Me collected the remaining food parcels and we retreated to the house.
Mini-Me was cooking up a storm and so I attempted to engage High Heels in some conversation. Her I.Q. seeped through her multiple-syllable vocabulary as she referred to her surgeon father and the family’s culminating efforts to serve his non-profit save the planet and its people organization. Seeing how exasperated I was after finding the salad bowl, not to mention comparing myself to Miss Fashion Captain Planet, I went into the other room to watch tv.
This is when the real dilemma entered the evening. Family Guy promised an episode devoted to Stewie (I greatly admire his cynicism) but thinking back to High Heels’ comment on her inability to watch tv due to her planet saving schedule, I was prompted to contemplate CNN so as to impress her with my current events interest (and by this I mean my Anderson Cooper interest). I settled on timed increments between the two, hoping her ignorance would think Family Guy was insightful parenting commercials.
T-Bone and Sunshine arrived on-time wearing sunglasses shading their illuminating egos. Mini-Me winked at where I was to sit, strategically chosen so his spot caused his elbows to poke High Heels throughout the meal.
I stare at the empty chair right when T-Bone says, “Who is the other plate for?”
Mini-Me reflects the question to me, “Hey yea, where is that poco soldier?”
Did I just get stood up by my little sister’s ex-boyfriend?
Damn it!
Sunshine expresses disbelief that Mini-Me cooked the entire meal when High Heels defended him by stating, “Brittany watched Family Guy for the three of us.”
Damn it!
My response, “I found the salad bowl.”
Why?
Because Mini-Me had invited his two best-friends (T-Bone who resembles Achilles the Brad Pitt version and Sunshine the California Golden Boy) and his current infatuation (the younger sister of my ex-classmate who was a perfect eccentric queen) which meant he was gonna try to impress her by lame conversation and over-seasoned cooking.
Damn it.
To even out this hormonal company I invited a family friend who was home from the Army and even though he is our sister’s ex-boyfriend Mini-Me and I still enjoy laughing at his good natured Mexican expense.
First stop, the grocery store with Mini-Me and the girl. I know that I should give her a chance to out-cool her eccentric queen sibling so I excuse her high heels on an average high school day as simple fashion in a player hatin’ world.
Sidenote: I like people based on two criteria. The first being that they laugh at my wit and the second being that they answer my questions intelligently.
She laughed at the way I carried the green bean cans. And then suggested we get salad. While I stood there trying to decide how she had usurped my two criteria, Mini-Me collected the remaining food parcels and we retreated to the house.
Mini-Me was cooking up a storm and so I attempted to engage High Heels in some conversation. Her I.Q. seeped through her multiple-syllable vocabulary as she referred to her surgeon father and the family’s culminating efforts to serve his non-profit save the planet and its people organization. Seeing how exasperated I was after finding the salad bowl, not to mention comparing myself to Miss Fashion Captain Planet, I went into the other room to watch tv.
This is when the real dilemma entered the evening. Family Guy promised an episode devoted to Stewie (I greatly admire his cynicism) but thinking back to High Heels’ comment on her inability to watch tv due to her planet saving schedule, I was prompted to contemplate CNN so as to impress her with my current events interest (and by this I mean my Anderson Cooper interest). I settled on timed increments between the two, hoping her ignorance would think Family Guy was insightful parenting commercials.
T-Bone and Sunshine arrived on-time wearing sunglasses shading their illuminating egos. Mini-Me winked at where I was to sit, strategically chosen so his spot caused his elbows to poke High Heels throughout the meal.
I stare at the empty chair right when T-Bone says, “Who is the other plate for?”
Mini-Me reflects the question to me, “Hey yea, where is that poco soldier?”
Did I just get stood up by my little sister’s ex-boyfriend?
Damn it!
Sunshine expresses disbelief that Mini-Me cooked the entire meal when High Heels defended him by stating, “Brittany watched Family Guy for the three of us.”
Damn it!
My response, “I found the salad bowl.”
Monday, April 14, 2008
Blind Feelings
I feel like Im standing in the middle of a room with people bustling around. Maybe somewhere like Panera. Im blindfolded and holding a jar full of marbles. My marbles.
Something tipped the jar and all the marbles spilled out. Now my jar is empty. But I can hear the marbles rolling on the wood floor.
I cant see them so I cant reach to pick them up.
So do I drop the jar and let it smash into pieces on the wood floor...
Or do I fill the jar with something else?
Something tipped the jar and all the marbles spilled out. Now my jar is empty. But I can hear the marbles rolling on the wood floor.
I cant see them so I cant reach to pick them up.
So do I drop the jar and let it smash into pieces on the wood floor...
Or do I fill the jar with something else?
Monday, March 24, 2008
My Fears
People often ask if I am afraid for my future Peace Corps service. I think I would be crazy to not be afraid. So here is a list of all the unreasonable and reasonable fears in no particular order.
1. Getting raped
2. Getting more sick than just a cold
3. Seeing a child die
4. Being outside of my comfortable worship style
5. Dealing with the absence of people that understand me
6. Returning to feel that I've missed out on the people I love
7. Not being able to stick it out full term
8. Coming back and feeling even more alienated from my peers
9. Being inadequate according to my job description
10. Bitterness rising in the hearts of my friends and family while Im gone
11. Meeting the other Peace Corps volunteers
12. Being unable to solve a problem
13. Losing my mind
14. Offending an elder in my community
15. Losing the ability to safely walk around outside at night
16. My religion being confused with my nationality
Most of all Im afraid of not trying. So even though some of these fears may become realities, living with a "what if" is the ultimate fear.
1. Getting raped
2. Getting more sick than just a cold
3. Seeing a child die
4. Being outside of my comfortable worship style
5. Dealing with the absence of people that understand me
6. Returning to feel that I've missed out on the people I love
7. Not being able to stick it out full term
8. Coming back and feeling even more alienated from my peers
9. Being inadequate according to my job description
10. Bitterness rising in the hearts of my friends and family while Im gone
11. Meeting the other Peace Corps volunteers
12. Being unable to solve a problem
13. Losing my mind
14. Offending an elder in my community
15. Losing the ability to safely walk around outside at night
16. My religion being confused with my nationality
Most of all Im afraid of not trying. So even though some of these fears may become realities, living with a "what if" is the ultimate fear.
Monday, March 10, 2008
To my Debit
Somedays I feel really separated from the people I do life with everyday, my community. I think its because of dreams.
Everyone has dreams but not everyone has hope of dreams coming true.
College is a great supporter of dreams. It creates this atmosphere for dreams to safely turn into successes and failures. Most of my community still thrive in this safe environment.
And Im on the Rim.
I havent stepped out away from the environment so I am still enticed by the atmosphere. Im waiting to tip off the Rim, to step or to run into a brickwall perhaps but mostly Im just waiting.
And what does waiting do to your dreams?
They become goals or fantasies. I know now which of my dreams have turned into goals, as plans and details are outlined. I know now which of my dreams have turned into fantasies, no longer allowed to be failures because I completed the allotted time inside the safe environment.
Do you know what it is like share a conversation with a safe dreamer - - oh the possibilities between that safe dreamer and a lonely categorized Waiter on the Rim...
For now follow the goals.
Adhere to the rules:
1. Never one plate
2. Once a day, every other day
3. I got 5 on it
4. Ventii is my treat
When safety is not guaranteed it is achieved through a haven in the mind.
Tomorrow takes care of itself only when I wake up from yesterday.
Everyone has dreams but not everyone has hope of dreams coming true.
College is a great supporter of dreams. It creates this atmosphere for dreams to safely turn into successes and failures. Most of my community still thrive in this safe environment.
And Im on the Rim.
I havent stepped out away from the environment so I am still enticed by the atmosphere. Im waiting to tip off the Rim, to step or to run into a brickwall perhaps but mostly Im just waiting.
And what does waiting do to your dreams?
They become goals or fantasies. I know now which of my dreams have turned into goals, as plans and details are outlined. I know now which of my dreams have turned into fantasies, no longer allowed to be failures because I completed the allotted time inside the safe environment.
Do you know what it is like share a conversation with a safe dreamer - - oh the possibilities between that safe dreamer and a lonely categorized Waiter on the Rim...
For now follow the goals.
Adhere to the rules:
1. Never one plate
2. Once a day, every other day
3. I got 5 on it
4. Ventii is my treat
When safety is not guaranteed it is achieved through a haven in the mind.
Tomorrow takes care of itself only when I wake up from yesterday.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Studio's Word
I tried so hard in the past to die that now I wake up everyday surprised Im alive. Somedays I take pride in my ability to hide and even though I claim in God is where I abide perhaps it's merely fear that I strive to conceal
lest I contrive relief for this life revealed
In Him I confide and perhaps that is why in the Church all I learn is how to divide
Multiply my rhymes until they're more than empty lines
of free speech because hate in me is deceased no longer living diseased but released to see His ultimate glory cuz Im
wholly imploring How To
holy exploring What For
poorly exploiting Why Be
whoring?
lest I contrive relief for this life revealed
In Him I confide and perhaps that is why in the Church all I learn is how to divide
Multiply my rhymes until they're more than empty lines
of free speech because hate in me is deceased no longer living diseased but released to see His ultimate glory cuz Im
wholly imploring How To
holy exploring What For
poorly exploiting Why Be
whoring?
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Making A Decision
I never knew I had a problem with being unproductive, until I became homeless. "Became Homeless" like I completed a course in order to be fully prepared to live a life of doing nothing.
I thought I could make the decision if she didnt care and if I could convince myself that she didnt need me. I was unprepared to battle my own neediness because fuck it if she is content with or without me, I am totally boring without her.
It would be easy if I didnt have friends or family. I would be homeless and have nobody to talk to besides myself. And I would too, I would wander up and down city streets talking to myself and wearing a Fresh coat.
being homeless is all about the coat and making a decision is all about other people.
I thought I could make the decision if she didnt care and if I could convince myself that she didnt need me. I was unprepared to battle my own neediness because fuck it if she is content with or without me, I am totally boring without her.
It would be easy if I didnt have friends or family. I would be homeless and have nobody to talk to besides myself. And I would too, I would wander up and down city streets talking to myself and wearing a Fresh coat.
being homeless is all about the coat and making a decision is all about other people.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Rich Young Ruler
Im coming to the end of my month of service at the City Rescue Mission. I thought I would be moving back to California but it looks like the Lord has other plans.
Last Wednesday I prayed with some friends about the direction to take now that my Peace Corps service is delayed until early June. On Friday the Mission offered me a position as an R.A. which includes housing. But my real interest is on the building across the street from the Mission (refugeokc.com) which is in the midst of a crazy transformation from a crackhouse to a peace-filled Refuge building for Jesus. On Friday I also got a call from a girl that is moving in to the Refuge and is supported as a missionary from her church. She has enough support to cover me for the 3 months that I now have to serve in what ever way God guides.
So God answers prayers in big ways. And as of Feb 1st I will be living (in the Mission or the Refuge) among the homeless and abused in downtown OKC and trying my best to be a faithful servant.
Last Wednesday I prayed with some friends about the direction to take now that my Peace Corps service is delayed until early June. On Friday the Mission offered me a position as an R.A. which includes housing. But my real interest is on the building across the street from the Mission (refugeokc.com) which is in the midst of a crazy transformation from a crackhouse to a peace-filled Refuge building for Jesus. On Friday I also got a call from a girl that is moving in to the Refuge and is supported as a missionary from her church. She has enough support to cover me for the 3 months that I now have to serve in what ever way God guides.
So God answers prayers in big ways. And as of Feb 1st I will be living (in the Mission or the Refuge) among the homeless and abused in downtown OKC and trying my best to be a faithful servant.
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