Some days I’m not sure my father realizes how much he has influenced my life. Does any parent ever know the impact they have in their child’s life?
The morning I left for Peace Corps, I had a lovely breakfast with my parents at their home. I was full of nerves, wondering if I really had the guts to move to Malawi for two years. My mom put on a very brave face but was having difficulty with the impending goodbye. My father said the prayer over the meal. It was about how parents dread and are also proud when their child makes the decision to leave home (at any age). It was so sweet and we all barely held it together. I think we were all a little scared. I busied myself with making sure my bags were the weight limitations and that I could carry everything.
Then as we said our goodbyes at the airport, my father imparted his words of wisdom. "Stay loose."
I have always been a little nervous about everything. I am a rule-follower. Once, when I was a kid, I got mad at my father, the rule-breaker, for taking a flower off the table at a restaurant. I was worried we would get in trouble for stealing. I also took things very literally. When I helped my father with his hand of poker, he instructed me to fold. So, of course, I folded our cards in half. Further, I was way too trusting. While shopping, my father found this toy that when you push the handle in several times, a top spins until it opens like a flower. He said, put your finger in there and when it stopped spinning, it closed and pinched my finger. Hilarious. At least it was to him.
So, when I left for Africa, my dad knew that the best thing he could tell me was to stay loose. I have thought of those words often since I have been here. When some of the older volunteers took us across the most rickety, Indiana-Jones-style bridge, I thought to myself, stay loose. We made it across and back just fine, although it was quite terrifying. When I weigh the screaming babies under a tree at the Health Clinic, I often have to think to myself stay loose and none of them have fallen yet! When I came across a particularly scary and possibly poisonous centipede in my house, I think about how my dad taught me not to be scared of bugs and also to stay loose. Then I used the heaviest book I could find (the Bible – it is helpful in so many ways) to crush it.
Often, I realize that when I heed this piece of advice, I end up with some of the best experiences and stories. My father has taught me many things but maybe one of the best lessons is to let go and break the rules on occasion.
I love you Dad.
Happy Father’s Day!
Monday, June 27, 2011
A Life Well Loved
Those who serve a cause are not those who love that cause. They are those who love the life which has to be led in order to serve it…
- Simone Weil
Lately, I have been watching a lot of romantic comedies with my Malawian neighbor. The guy and girl meet just by chance on a street corner in New York and usually after some light verbal sparring, they fall madly in love. But after the movie ended last night I had to say my typical, jaded girl line: “That was a good movie but it would never happen like that in real life.” And to that, my sweet neighbor replied, “I think it really can happen.” Now, I can’t stop thinking about what the word love means. How do you know when you are in love? How can a word that is so powerful also be so insignificant?
I went searching in the dictionary. It says love is deep affection and warm feeling; a zero score in tennis; to like or desire enthusiastically; enamored.
That wasn’t terribly enlightening so I thought about the things I love. I love my animals – both here and stateside. I want them to stop being stupid and not give me fleas (my newest anxiety) and they provide me with companionship and are an endless source of laughter and stories. In exchange, I give them food and a place to sleep and protect them as much as possible.
I love sushi. Those beautiful little pieces of raw fish and vegetables that look like a present waiting to be devoured. Despite what my Grandma thinks, they are so delicious. This will definitely be one of my first meals when I get back to the States.
I love dance. It makes me think, is always a challenge, and has been a way for me to express myself throughout my life.
Still, I’m not sure this helps me understand what love means. If anything, I might be more confused. Here in Malawi, the word for “to love” is kukonda. The catch is that kukonda means both love and like. Many boys who I’ve never met before have yelled at me from the side of the road as I ride by on my bike, “I love you.” It makes me laugh every time.
But I’m dodging the main point. So, here is the real question. Do I love Malawi? Is it too soon to have such a strong relationship with this country that I have only known for three months? I have never been one to hold back when it comes to falling in love and I wonder if that could be true again.
First, Malawi is a constant challenge for me and makes me think about culture in a new and different way. Sure, we might have our share of disagreements, like when I walked outside to find that cows had pushed over my fence and were standing in my backyard. But despite the minor difficulties we are growing stronger together.
Secondly, this country is a constant source of surprise. When I walked into the Limbe Market the other day, I gasped at all the fresh produce available so close to my site and my ability to negotiate the prices with various vendors. I could not get enough. There were avocados, garlic, ginger, tomatoes, onions, and pineapple overflowing from my basket. I’m told I looked like the Chiquita Banana woman as I walked back to the bus with my basket of fruit on my head.
Additionally, Malawi is a constant source of stories and laughter for me. And everyone knows that a good sense of humor is an essential component to the perfect relationship. I took a matola home from the Boma the other day and got to ride in the front with two men – the driver and the owner of the truck. The driver kept saying things in Chichewa that I didn’t understand and look at me to agree with him. I would say eyah (yes) and all three of us would laugh. It was a hilarious ride home! I have never been so funny in all my life.
I love the sunsets, Obama chitenjes (realistic and cartoon versions), the double waves, and the monkey who rides the cat! But, maybe the thing that I love most is the people I get to interact with on a daily basis. My ever-optimistic neighbor, my colleagues at the Health Clinic, the children who make me laugh, the girls who come to play/torture my puppy, my friend at the market, the old ladies at the borehole. They are the reason this place is so wonderful.
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Maybe I will never be able to fully understand what the word love means because it is a feeling that is beyond definition. Its true that I will always be loyal and in love with Kentucky but I think I have room in my heart for loving more than one place at a time.
- Simone Weil
Lately, I have been watching a lot of romantic comedies with my Malawian neighbor. The guy and girl meet just by chance on a street corner in New York and usually after some light verbal sparring, they fall madly in love. But after the movie ended last night I had to say my typical, jaded girl line: “That was a good movie but it would never happen like that in real life.” And to that, my sweet neighbor replied, “I think it really can happen.” Now, I can’t stop thinking about what the word love means. How do you know when you are in love? How can a word that is so powerful also be so insignificant?
I went searching in the dictionary. It says love is deep affection and warm feeling; a zero score in tennis; to like or desire enthusiastically; enamored.
That wasn’t terribly enlightening so I thought about the things I love. I love my animals – both here and stateside. I want them to stop being stupid and not give me fleas (my newest anxiety) and they provide me with companionship and are an endless source of laughter and stories. In exchange, I give them food and a place to sleep and protect them as much as possible.
I love sushi. Those beautiful little pieces of raw fish and vegetables that look like a present waiting to be devoured. Despite what my Grandma thinks, they are so delicious. This will definitely be one of my first meals when I get back to the States.
I love dance. It makes me think, is always a challenge, and has been a way for me to express myself throughout my life.
Still, I’m not sure this helps me understand what love means. If anything, I might be more confused. Here in Malawi, the word for “to love” is kukonda. The catch is that kukonda means both love and like. Many boys who I’ve never met before have yelled at me from the side of the road as I ride by on my bike, “I love you.” It makes me laugh every time.
But I’m dodging the main point. So, here is the real question. Do I love Malawi? Is it too soon to have such a strong relationship with this country that I have only known for three months? I have never been one to hold back when it comes to falling in love and I wonder if that could be true again.
First, Malawi is a constant challenge for me and makes me think about culture in a new and different way. Sure, we might have our share of disagreements, like when I walked outside to find that cows had pushed over my fence and were standing in my backyard. But despite the minor difficulties we are growing stronger together.
Secondly, this country is a constant source of surprise. When I walked into the Limbe Market the other day, I gasped at all the fresh produce available so close to my site and my ability to negotiate the prices with various vendors. I could not get enough. There were avocados, garlic, ginger, tomatoes, onions, and pineapple overflowing from my basket. I’m told I looked like the Chiquita Banana woman as I walked back to the bus with my basket of fruit on my head.
Additionally, Malawi is a constant source of stories and laughter for me. And everyone knows that a good sense of humor is an essential component to the perfect relationship. I took a matola home from the Boma the other day and got to ride in the front with two men – the driver and the owner of the truck. The driver kept saying things in Chichewa that I didn’t understand and look at me to agree with him. I would say eyah (yes) and all three of us would laugh. It was a hilarious ride home! I have never been so funny in all my life.
I love the sunsets, Obama chitenjes (realistic and cartoon versions), the double waves, and the monkey who rides the cat! But, maybe the thing that I love most is the people I get to interact with on a daily basis. My ever-optimistic neighbor, my colleagues at the Health Clinic, the children who make me laugh, the girls who come to play/torture my puppy, my friend at the market, the old ladies at the borehole. They are the reason this place is so wonderful.
Maybe I will never be able to fully understand what the word love means because it is a feeling that is beyond definition. Its true that I will always be loyal and in love with Kentucky but I think I have room in my heart for loving more than one place at a time.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
True Colors
A few days ago my friend and I walked into a tuck shop in his village to get a Fanta. Pineapple is my favorite flavor and we are lucky that the shops in our area have electricity so we can get a cold soda which provides a little respite from the heat. The shop is filled with knickknacks, ujeni, and food staples like sugar, eggs, and rice.
We realized quickly that at least at that time this shop had no cold sodas. So we silently made a signal to go to another shop across the road but the owner had already begun chatting with us. He wanted to know what we liked about Malawi. The food? The people? What is different here? We began explaining a few of the obvious differences before the shop owner cut in and said, “In America, there are people from all different races.” Jake said, “Yes, we call that the melting pot.” The owner went on, “At first, there were only whites in America and then there was the slave trade from Africa and now everyone lives happily together in America.”
~~~
Lately, I have been struggling to put together my thoughts about race. Since I came to site one month ago, I have been drawn in by authors like Alice Walker, Octavia Butler and now I am reading Barack Obama’s book, Dreams from My Father. Meridian is one of my favorite books about the civil rights movement. I am continually enamored with Walker’s writing. Kindred, by Octavia Butler is a book about a black woman’s accidental time travel to the antebellum south. It is a clever comparison of life as we know it today and the life of slavery. And, as only it could be, Obama’s autobiography is also a story of race. (It is even more interesting because Obama is everywhere here including on t-shirts, chitenje’s, razor blades, etc. Our President is loved in Malawi!)
As I read these stories, I can’t help thinking about my placement in Malawi and I honestly can’t figure out how to feel about race in the American/Malawian context. I constantly ask myself if I am like the Baroness in Out of Africa who after years of living in Africa, realizes that putting white gloves on the African boy who serves her food is just plain stupid. I don’t doubt that I am making some similar mistakes.
Daily, I struggle with the privilege afforded to me simply because of the color of my skin. I hear young boys say that they prefer to marry a white woman when there are so many beautiful black women surrounding them and all would make better wives than me or my friends ever would. When I go to draw water, my bucket is taken first even though there is a long line of buckets waiting to be filled. Even my puppy gets treated like an azungu pup. The little girls carry him around and come to play with him rather than scare him away like they do with the other village dogs. Here, I will always stick out because of my whiteness and sometimes I may even take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to wait an hour to collect my water.
The shopkeeper I described is a smart man. I’m sure he knows there was more to slavery than what he told us. Sometime I just have to wonder what is lost in translation and what people really think. But mostly, I keep wondering what it will take for me to learn to remove the white gloves?
We realized quickly that at least at that time this shop had no cold sodas. So we silently made a signal to go to another shop across the road but the owner had already begun chatting with us. He wanted to know what we liked about Malawi. The food? The people? What is different here? We began explaining a few of the obvious differences before the shop owner cut in and said, “In America, there are people from all different races.” Jake said, “Yes, we call that the melting pot.” The owner went on, “At first, there were only whites in America and then there was the slave trade from Africa and now everyone lives happily together in America.”
~~~
Lately, I have been struggling to put together my thoughts about race. Since I came to site one month ago, I have been drawn in by authors like Alice Walker, Octavia Butler and now I am reading Barack Obama’s book, Dreams from My Father. Meridian is one of my favorite books about the civil rights movement. I am continually enamored with Walker’s writing. Kindred, by Octavia Butler is a book about a black woman’s accidental time travel to the antebellum south. It is a clever comparison of life as we know it today and the life of slavery. And, as only it could be, Obama’s autobiography is also a story of race. (It is even more interesting because Obama is everywhere here including on t-shirts, chitenje’s, razor blades, etc. Our President is loved in Malawi!)
As I read these stories, I can’t help thinking about my placement in Malawi and I honestly can’t figure out how to feel about race in the American/Malawian context. I constantly ask myself if I am like the Baroness in Out of Africa who after years of living in Africa, realizes that putting white gloves on the African boy who serves her food is just plain stupid. I don’t doubt that I am making some similar mistakes.
Daily, I struggle with the privilege afforded to me simply because of the color of my skin. I hear young boys say that they prefer to marry a white woman when there are so many beautiful black women surrounding them and all would make better wives than me or my friends ever would. When I go to draw water, my bucket is taken first even though there is a long line of buckets waiting to be filled. Even my puppy gets treated like an azungu pup. The little girls carry him around and come to play with him rather than scare him away like they do with the other village dogs. Here, I will always stick out because of my whiteness and sometimes I may even take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to wait an hour to collect my water.
The shopkeeper I described is a smart man. I’m sure he knows there was more to slavery than what he told us. Sometime I just have to wonder what is lost in translation and what people really think. But mostly, I keep wondering what it will take for me to learn to remove the white gloves?
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