Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Knocked Up
The clock is tickin. Cliches. Those bothersome overused expressions that I suppose become clichés simply by the fact that they’ve been proven true for enough people. Like all humble writers I have thought myself to be far above any cliché factor.
I scoff at the preemptory “you know what they say...” before the dreaded life lesson wisdom. After all, I have no idea who “they” are and I want to be the one dispersing great wisdom.
And then it happened.
My younger sister called to say she is pregnant.
My YOUNGER sister.
My brain was stuttering like a prepubescent boy after having walked into the girls locker room. I forgot to blink. I was sure the operators of long distance cross continent phone calls were playing tricks by inserting bits of other peoples’ lives into my organized reality. I pulled it together to give my congratulations and held back what I was really thinking “but you went out of order.”
One would think the physical separation would ease me of any resentment or jealousy or embarrassment. And at first that was true. I filed this fam-add fact into the AmericaLand folder in my mental filing cabinet and got back to work.
Then I was asked to teach a group about family planning. A woman was asking how many children she should have, a man said his wife wanted sexy all the time, I was making them laugh – normal stuff. And then a girl brought up the pressure from relatives and tradition to fulfill her feminine duty of becoming a mother. And I heard the mental cabinet fling open as my WomanHood jumped out to scream, “tick tock motherfucker.”
This is not supposed to happen. I’m in the middle of a big adventure. I have plans for my life damnit. I reviewed these plans, mostly all the interesting jobs I want to try.
1. Sailor
2. Bartender.
3. Taxi Driver
Then began making this new life crisis appropriate adjustments.
1. Marry a Sailor
2. Barista
3. Mini-Van Carpool Driver
Reason eventually took over. I’m still young. There are no even possible candidates for daddy. I took calming yoga breaths and moved past this incident.
Then I moved to live with the new family. Where the cute iwes call me Auntie. One afternoon while I was helping some of the women cook I asked the one mixing nsima with a baby on her back how old she was. She replied, “I was born in 1987.”
The same year as my younger sister.
Then Moses ran up, “Ba Auntie, come play.”
My WomanHood again stepped out to inform me that I am in fact That Aunt. The fun one that plays games and gives out candy and never disciplines. Known as the cool one until the kid is in high school and wonders about his aunt that lives alone spending Friday nights watching Jeopardy with her cats. I might as well start stocking Whiskas now.
This time reason did not step up to save the day. I was no longer in denial about what was happening in AmericaLand and I embraced all levels of jealousy thinking about my mother and older sister (mother of 2) helping the newest inductee shop for those necessary supplies. Not like I could really contribute. The most time I’ve spent observing the Baby Game Plan is here in Zambia. Which means I would wrap the kid in a piece of cloth and give them some rocks and a stick to play with.
I began telling people in hopes I could hear some cliché. I was embarrassed to admit it but at this point I wanted the advice of “they.” But they just misunderstood my emphasis on ‘younger’ sister and were thinking my sister is some 14 year old hoochie. While I picked up the pieces to defend her honor and tried to weasel out some sympathy for me, they looked bored and wanted to know how excited I am to be an aunt.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Then I got a letter with pictures of my now full bellied pregnant sister.
And yes, she is beautiful and glowing. And yes, I cried looking at them. And no, my WomanHood didn’t shout allegations to shred my tender heart. Because I could see how happy she is. And that makes me happy.
So instead of reveling in the horrifying fact that I got drunk last night and wrote a song entitled “Sunrise” to my unborn child, I will embrace this holiday season and be the cool aunt going on another adventure through the Kalahari Desert in Namibia to the Skeleton Coast on this side of the Atlantic.
Tick tock.
I scoff at the preemptory “you know what they say...” before the dreaded life lesson wisdom. After all, I have no idea who “they” are and I want to be the one dispersing great wisdom.
And then it happened.
My younger sister called to say she is pregnant.
My YOUNGER sister.
My brain was stuttering like a prepubescent boy after having walked into the girls locker room. I forgot to blink. I was sure the operators of long distance cross continent phone calls were playing tricks by inserting bits of other peoples’ lives into my organized reality. I pulled it together to give my congratulations and held back what I was really thinking “but you went out of order.”
One would think the physical separation would ease me of any resentment or jealousy or embarrassment. And at first that was true. I filed this fam-add fact into the AmericaLand folder in my mental filing cabinet and got back to work.
Then I was asked to teach a group about family planning. A woman was asking how many children she should have, a man said his wife wanted sexy all the time, I was making them laugh – normal stuff. And then a girl brought up the pressure from relatives and tradition to fulfill her feminine duty of becoming a mother. And I heard the mental cabinet fling open as my WomanHood jumped out to scream, “tick tock motherfucker.”
This is not supposed to happen. I’m in the middle of a big adventure. I have plans for my life damnit. I reviewed these plans, mostly all the interesting jobs I want to try.
1. Sailor
2. Bartender.
3. Taxi Driver
Then began making this new life crisis appropriate adjustments.
1. Marry a Sailor
2. Barista
3. Mini-Van Carpool Driver
Reason eventually took over. I’m still young. There are no even possible candidates for daddy. I took calming yoga breaths and moved past this incident.
Then I moved to live with the new family. Where the cute iwes call me Auntie. One afternoon while I was helping some of the women cook I asked the one mixing nsima with a baby on her back how old she was. She replied, “I was born in 1987.”
The same year as my younger sister.
Then Moses ran up, “Ba Auntie, come play.”
My WomanHood again stepped out to inform me that I am in fact That Aunt. The fun one that plays games and gives out candy and never disciplines. Known as the cool one until the kid is in high school and wonders about his aunt that lives alone spending Friday nights watching Jeopardy with her cats. I might as well start stocking Whiskas now.
This time reason did not step up to save the day. I was no longer in denial about what was happening in AmericaLand and I embraced all levels of jealousy thinking about my mother and older sister (mother of 2) helping the newest inductee shop for those necessary supplies. Not like I could really contribute. The most time I’ve spent observing the Baby Game Plan is here in Zambia. Which means I would wrap the kid in a piece of cloth and give them some rocks and a stick to play with.
I began telling people in hopes I could hear some cliché. I was embarrassed to admit it but at this point I wanted the advice of “they.” But they just misunderstood my emphasis on ‘younger’ sister and were thinking my sister is some 14 year old hoochie. While I picked up the pieces to defend her honor and tried to weasel out some sympathy for me, they looked bored and wanted to know how excited I am to be an aunt.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Then I got a letter with pictures of my now full bellied pregnant sister.
And yes, she is beautiful and glowing. And yes, I cried looking at them. And no, my WomanHood didn’t shout allegations to shred my tender heart. Because I could see how happy she is. And that makes me happy.
So instead of reveling in the horrifying fact that I got drunk last night and wrote a song entitled “Sunrise” to my unborn child, I will embrace this holiday season and be the cool aunt going on another adventure through the Kalahari Desert in Namibia to the Skeleton Coast on this side of the Atlantic.
Tick tock.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Movin On Up...
Awe-inspirirng African moments are few and far between these days. That horrible “same ole thing” sinks in and I get writers block because nothing surprises or engages my creativity. How did I become used to Africa? Time. I don’t believe time heals. I believe time dulls. And I don’t like it.
Last night I jumped off the truck thankful for a full moon. Since it would be my first night with my new family I was anxious about finding the place in the dark. But, as always, the Zambians were ready to help and a neighbor brought an ox cart for the journey. So I sat bumping along through the bush guided by the moon and stars. Before I moved it took me 5-10 minutes after the 3 hour truck drive. The ox cart arrived at my house after an hour and I had to wake up my Bataata to have him give me the key to my house.
I gotta say this new house is way nicer than my old hut. Its 13x9 and split into 2 rooms. Alongside a dam so now I have waterfront property in the midst of banana, mango, guava, and papaya trees. But the best part is the ma deco (decorations) the family left on the wall for me. A calendar from 2004. Which was when I finished my freshman year in Oregon and decided to move to Oklahoma. A poster “6 priority practices for child survival in our communities.” Im an advocate for de-worming and vitamin A. Also, the token cardboard featuring shiny packages of biscuits and sweeties (cookies and candy). Without a doubt my favorite ma deco is the poster with young, smiling women entitled “Virgin Pride, Virgin Power.” That’s right people, Im keeping the dream alive.
Exhausted from my journey I went straight to sleep excited for the morning and what I hoped to be a block breaking new African day. I awoke to kids screaming. I don’t care what country your in, this is the worst alarm clock because it means you start out the day cursing. And then you just feel dirty. So my dirty self focused on the new bag of coffee I bought, which was beans not grounded. So I went to work grounding it by smashing with a stick when the children swarmed.
It was 4 year old Castro that caught on the fastest that my name in Lweendo and not white person. So he was in charge of ordering the other iwes to get with it. The first luxury to living with a family was sending a teenaged boy for charcoal. (which is more effective than firewood in rainy season). This was great because Im a bit clumsy when riding my bike with a big bag of charcoal wobbling to its own rhythm.
While I was preparing breakfast the kids ran around my house asking what the English word was for everything. This may have been cute before the dull African time thing but all I could think was “get out of my house and stop touching my things.”
And apparently they didn’t understand this Tonga command because those little shits broke my slingshot and then turned on my boxed wine spout and then walked away all pimp like. So we had a little sit down session “this is Ba Lweendo’s vino, if you touch it, I beat you.”
After I straightened out the iwes, I turned my attention to the headmen. Because even though my house is finished, my toilet and kitchen and bathing shelter are all in repair.
At the headmen meeting I noticed that bucket hats and gum boots seemed to be the pre-requisite. Along with the ability to talk without listening to anyone in your immediate vicinity.
And there was I, in the immediate vicinity.
My trick with dealing with dealing with headmen is my trick with dealing with every male. I compliment them on a well done job they have yet to undertake. These compliments build somewhere in their spastic brains until they “decide” they can and in fact will “take care of that for you honey.”
Three days later. Ive forgotten how loud it can be living with a family. People are loud. Our dogs chase our goats. The iwes are crying and running about. And my Bataata actually wants to talk. Im reminding myself this is what I want. Currently my Bataata is sitting under the mango tree, reading a book by David Baldacci. Or at least attempting to read it. I know I have trouble with the legal terms so it seems quite the endeavor for him to undertake.
I should mention some of their names. It will probably take me months to figure it all out but for now, the Simalimbika family. Bataata is Fellow. He has 2 grown sons and 1 daughter living on the compound. Collage, Fatty and Gloria. There are some teenage girls including Couple and Honest. Followed by the Rugrat crew led by Castro and Moses.
So this is my new home. It feels great to be away from my old living situation. Although Ive come to realize how selfish Ive become since living in solitude; which is never something you want to learn about yourself.
But Im seeing a new side to Tonga life. My Bataata is teaching me the history of our village. My Bamama is teaching me to cook. My teenage girls are teaching me to dance. My iwes are teaching me patience.
I think the biggest difference between Americans and other cultures is the idea that I can do anything. That my gender and my education and my background can be a catalyst and not a hindrance.
And that’s what Im teaching.
Last night I jumped off the truck thankful for a full moon. Since it would be my first night with my new family I was anxious about finding the place in the dark. But, as always, the Zambians were ready to help and a neighbor brought an ox cart for the journey. So I sat bumping along through the bush guided by the moon and stars. Before I moved it took me 5-10 minutes after the 3 hour truck drive. The ox cart arrived at my house after an hour and I had to wake up my Bataata to have him give me the key to my house.
I gotta say this new house is way nicer than my old hut. Its 13x9 and split into 2 rooms. Alongside a dam so now I have waterfront property in the midst of banana, mango, guava, and papaya trees. But the best part is the ma deco (decorations) the family left on the wall for me. A calendar from 2004. Which was when I finished my freshman year in Oregon and decided to move to Oklahoma. A poster “6 priority practices for child survival in our communities.” Im an advocate for de-worming and vitamin A. Also, the token cardboard featuring shiny packages of biscuits and sweeties (cookies and candy). Without a doubt my favorite ma deco is the poster with young, smiling women entitled “Virgin Pride, Virgin Power.” That’s right people, Im keeping the dream alive.
Exhausted from my journey I went straight to sleep excited for the morning and what I hoped to be a block breaking new African day. I awoke to kids screaming. I don’t care what country your in, this is the worst alarm clock because it means you start out the day cursing. And then you just feel dirty. So my dirty self focused on the new bag of coffee I bought, which was beans not grounded. So I went to work grounding it by smashing with a stick when the children swarmed.
It was 4 year old Castro that caught on the fastest that my name in Lweendo and not white person. So he was in charge of ordering the other iwes to get with it. The first luxury to living with a family was sending a teenaged boy for charcoal. (which is more effective than firewood in rainy season). This was great because Im a bit clumsy when riding my bike with a big bag of charcoal wobbling to its own rhythm.
While I was preparing breakfast the kids ran around my house asking what the English word was for everything. This may have been cute before the dull African time thing but all I could think was “get out of my house and stop touching my things.”
And apparently they didn’t understand this Tonga command because those little shits broke my slingshot and then turned on my boxed wine spout and then walked away all pimp like. So we had a little sit down session “this is Ba Lweendo’s vino, if you touch it, I beat you.”
After I straightened out the iwes, I turned my attention to the headmen. Because even though my house is finished, my toilet and kitchen and bathing shelter are all in repair.
At the headmen meeting I noticed that bucket hats and gum boots seemed to be the pre-requisite. Along with the ability to talk without listening to anyone in your immediate vicinity.
And there was I, in the immediate vicinity.
My trick with dealing with dealing with headmen is my trick with dealing with every male. I compliment them on a well done job they have yet to undertake. These compliments build somewhere in their spastic brains until they “decide” they can and in fact will “take care of that for you honey.”
Three days later. Ive forgotten how loud it can be living with a family. People are loud. Our dogs chase our goats. The iwes are crying and running about. And my Bataata actually wants to talk. Im reminding myself this is what I want. Currently my Bataata is sitting under the mango tree, reading a book by David Baldacci. Or at least attempting to read it. I know I have trouble with the legal terms so it seems quite the endeavor for him to undertake.
I should mention some of their names. It will probably take me months to figure it all out but for now, the Simalimbika family. Bataata is Fellow. He has 2 grown sons and 1 daughter living on the compound. Collage, Fatty and Gloria. There are some teenage girls including Couple and Honest. Followed by the Rugrat crew led by Castro and Moses.
So this is my new home. It feels great to be away from my old living situation. Although Ive come to realize how selfish Ive become since living in solitude; which is never something you want to learn about yourself.
But Im seeing a new side to Tonga life. My Bataata is teaching me the history of our village. My Bamama is teaching me to cook. My teenage girls are teaching me to dance. My iwes are teaching me patience.
I think the biggest difference between Americans and other cultures is the idea that I can do anything. That my gender and my education and my background can be a catalyst and not a hindrance.
And that’s what Im teaching.
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