Pura Vida

"Stop judging yourself, Brittany." A friend looked at me from across the table at our favorite bar in Choma. That statement followed a lot of people's recent comments exploring how I live, how I think about living.
It reminded me of the week before I came to Zambia. When I sat inside Starbucks sitting across from my best friend and telling her that among the reasons I was leaving was because I felt Africa's suffering was my fault. I forgot her words in reaction because they didnt match the look on her face. You know how the stable person in the relationship always chooses words too carefully but its ok because you know them so well you often dont have to listen, just watch.
(if you dont, your probably the stable person)
Anyways, I wont forget the look on her face. The look of pity for the pressure I must be putting on myself.
And now I see how that pressure prohibits me from being productive. But I dont know how to change it. How to change the way I feel. How to channel feeling into action.
I remember the day my older sister had a revelation about me and my feelings. My family has always joked about my stoicism but missed the reality of the interior. It took my sister meeting her husband (who shares some of my same qualities) to understand how intensely I feel. To understand that growing up, the stoicism is protection for my role in society.
But what about now?
When I told my best friend that Africa's suffering was my fault, I meant responsibility. I meant that the knowledge I obtained concerning HIV/TB/malnutrition was knowledge I gained through the general American school system, not by unusual pursuits or circumstances. I believed that holding that knowledge for my own benefit and not dispersing it was allowing for HIV/TB/malnutrition...
I know Im not the cause for those things. Despite what my mother would have me believe about starving children and me not finishing all of my vegetables. I just dont see the difference of my response to the allowance of suffering and the cause of suffering.
Now I know not everyone feels like me, feels so intensely. I know Im not as productive, not as effective in my village because Im often paralyzed by my emotion. But there are those people, those driven "do'ers" that Ive seen work magnificently here.
And thats the only reason Im ok with the pressure of judging myself. Because my feelings cause me to write, to tell a story.
When I was involved with a homeless shelter awhile back I was hurting for the children. The children who were impacted by the cold of cement and infected by the smell of homelessness just because their parents were addicts. And on a random airplane I spilled the stories of those children to the wealthy oilman sitting next to me. A few weeks later a large check came for the children to get new shoes. Because that man "a do'er" remembered how it felt as a kid to have new shoes.
For all my time I spent downtown in that shelter, Im most proud and most grateful for his donation. Money worked in that situation but it doesnt always have a direct benefit in relief work in Africa. Life just isnt that organized here.
Proof of that came by the construction of the Simakutu clinic. A project I took on after the original volunteer had to go back to America. Some funds were raised and with the purchase of supplies, the builders dug in. I visited and supervised and was overwhelmed by the productivity of the construction crew and the dedication of the head nurse.
But all the plans to finish the much needed treatment facility for over 9,000 people were stalled when I was told no more money was allowed. So even though the community met that which was expected, I had to tell them red tape prohibited me from allocating more funds and more supplies. Thus ending their dream for a clean and safe environment to treat their loved ones.
Not my proudest moment.
Growing up, I was lucky to have those loving parents that told me I could be anything, I could do anything I wanted.
Now I know that really means they will always support my dreams.
My dreams now, after being in Zambia just a year: To tell a story of a need that a "do'er" will accomplish.
I know my emotions paralyze me. But the only way I know to channel all these feelings is to write, to tell stories. Because after a year here I still feel that allowing a problem is creating a problem.
One of the young Americans I met in Costa Rica was telling me his political views. His belief in individual rights. And how he doesnt feel the need to judge nor the right to condemn a person who kills, or rapes, or steals, or whatever offense. I suppose in his circle that view is admired. If we say nothing when a person settles into society than why say something when they cause waves. The academic world allows language to be true in logic while ignoring its truth in persecution. To be tolerant in America is appreciated, is respected.
In response to his politically correct rant I wanted to punch him in the face. I thought I was being mature by holding back but looking back I could have justified it by his own reasoning.
Because he was talking about respecting laws. About respecting people's reasoning. But laws are just words on a dusty page. And his 'respect' for those people portrays his ignorance of a person. Because we can all step back and think attacks in the Middle East are tragic but of course that affects those people. Or the abortion of millions is a fat regret for those people. Or the suffering of AIDS is a painful mistake for those people. Or the date rape of naive targets is horrific for those people.
But what happens when those people become a person.
Become my person.
Ive been there.
I am there.
You dont sit and practice tolerance when those become mine.
You ask 'how?'
You ask 'why?'
And then you act.
That is why tolerance and law perturb me with the ugly fascination of a car crash on the side of the road. People living under this code seem relaxed. Seem to enjoy a pleasant, plush life.
How?
Why?
Is it because as long as they werent the ones pulling the trigger than they werent involved?
All I see in the world is 'what?'
When the only answer is a fact - a horrific experience - then I forget my academic swaddling and I diminish the abyss between allowance and causation by belittling myself.
And then I act.
Even if its only with a pen.