the prelude to my God post, or the first in a series

This fall, I'm taking a class on the oral history of Saint Louis. Part of the class requires that we interview Saint Louis residents and write a paper using their commentary. Today at New City, three homeless people (2 men, 1 woman) were sharing their stories and experiences. As I listened to how they were being forcibly moved from a park in downtown Saint Louis, I thought of this class and how awesome it'd be to have their perspective. I wanted to give them my name and number, but I just couldn't: Would it be ethical? If I approach them about this class, would I be the clueless WU student unwittingly using her power/privilege to her advantage? etc., etc.

However, a part of me knew it would be a step of faith to just ask. By step of faith, I mean trusting God that it would be the right move. But I couldn't make that step. I don't know God's voice well enough to make that step. This knowledge has reminded me of how stagnant my relationship with God has become. This time last year, I was steady learning and reading and growing. With school and abroad (especially abroad...), I've hit a roadblock: I thought I'd be able to integrate God into my life even with the hecticness that is school and the adventuresomeness that is life abroad. No dice.

Looking back, I realize that trying to integrate God into my life was the wrong move. I have to just give my life - in its entirety - to Him. That scares me. I don't like being out of control of my life. If I had it my way, I'd steadily work God in so I don't loose track of the other things I'm doing. But if I do that, then I'm putting God on my timetable, telling Him to wait in line. I know that's not what He's asked of anyone and I'm no exception. I just have to lay it down.

Honestly, I'm not ready to go there. I know there's never a time when you're ready, but still. sigh. ... Anyway, anyone wanna share about what happened after they layed it all down? What kind of joy did you get? (Basically, my heart needs a push in the right direction...)

i have more productive and meaningful things to say than FUCKIT

Kenya is over and to see this space become a “that-time-in-Kenya” timecapsule would be a shame. Kenya was life-changing, but it is not the culmination of my profound life experiences. Not only would that be sad, it would discount what my day-to-day life has to teach me. And, as of late, it’s been teaching me a lot.

But I’ll split those lessons up into separate posts. Right now, I wanna talk a little about the direction of this blog. It started as an attempt to not be a quitter anymore. I’ve had some pretty great successes with that over the past few months, but I’m still sawing away at the root of the problem: See, what most folk don’t know, is that I tend to view my thoughts/perspectives as insignificant. I know ::points to head:: that that isn’t true, but I don’t know ::points to heart:: that it’s not true.

In an attempt to rectify this situation, this blog will now focus on what I observe day-in, day-out. I’ll try to post weekly so that a) I can give adequate attention to what I wanna talk about, b) I don’t exhaust my thought-bank, and c) I avoid making the transition from “Who cares what I think” to “Because, you know, I’m an expert”

What’s more, I’d like y’alls input. (Because, if I wanted a monologue, I’d’ve shut this place down some time ago…)

Anyway, I look forward to keeping this blog up and I look forward to hearing from y’all.


Oh btws… Upcoming topics (in no particular order)—

1) Not wanting to heartlessly abandon Saint Louis
2) My love/fear relationship with writing
3) Men. Black ones in particular.
4) Me: What’s good God? .. God: Me. When are you gunna stop askin me that???
5) Senior year

where you at reverse culture shock?!

I’m not euphoric about being home.
I don’t feel awkward around folk who haven’t been to Kenya/abroad.
I only disapprove of America slightly more than I did when I left.

I feel like I’m not having reverse culture shock because I see everything I’ve experienced since January 14th til now as normal. Not normal as in “everything’s okay,” but normal as in status quo: Every healthy farm, each drop of brown water trickling down open drainage ditches, every belligerent WASP who thinks s/he is right all the time, each perfectly manicured blade of grass, all the self-employed merchants, every wildflower swaying peaceful despite the fact that its home is a landfill is, for better or worse, the standard for the area its found in.

Because I define normal/status quo in local terms, I understand my perspective on my time abroad as a manifestation of glocalization: the idea that the global community is comprised of local communities that can identify and solve their own problems. Lamenting the woes of the world and America’s responsibility to rectify them, then, is meaningless if one does not acknowledge a community’s own power to create their own solutions.

As a world citizen with a glocal perspective, I find it more useful to pay attention to the world’s problems, see how local communities are solving the problem, understand how my country can help, and then figure out how I can help. Unfortunately/fortunately, “most help” may mean not getting involved because we (as a country and as individuals) may not have the understanding, skills, and genuine desire to be of use to really be helpful in certain situations.

Clearly, a glocal perspective can easily turn into apathy. For instance, there were so many times on my internship where I reduced my involvement and justified it with, “I really can’t be useful here.” In actuality, I just didn’t feel like working. A better response would have been, “How does this experience relate to my life at home? How can I use this connection to integrate myself into this activity?”

These questions will guide how I live the next few years of my life. As I apply these questions to various situations, I will gain a better understanding of who I am in the time and spaces I find myself in. It’ll be interesting to figure out where and when I’m completely impotent, extremely powerful, or simply a helpmeet.

Yeah, two posts in one day, but Jesus kinda can't wait

I met a couple in ministry at dinner tonight. This couple had traveled to America several times and had been blessed every visit. This couple decided to pay the blessing forward by covering transport costs for my friend and I to go to Nakuru national game park. I'll be receiving this blessing on Saturday. Yeah, Visions Concert Saturday.

As glad as I am that I don't have to pay for transport, this blessing is most definitely not about money. It is - in the deepest way - about Jesus. This couple is acknowledging God's generosity and goodness by modeling it. All they want to do is remind us that Jesus is at work. It's so simple, but so very easy to miss. I just needed to take some time to acknowledge that what happens in this world is always, always about God.

I was tested for HIV today

For my last month abroad, I'm working with the Youth Programme at Family Health Options Kenya (FHOK) in Nakuru. The majority of my work is doing voluntary counseling and testing (VCT) outreaches in various neighborhoods in the city. Basically, I approach residents in their homes, on their porches, at storefronts - anywhere people are congregated - and try to convince them to come to our on-site counseling and testing center to get their questions about HIV/AIDS answered and get an HIV test. While being less-than-fluent in KiSwahili is definitely a hurdle, my real problem was being so bold as to try and persuade people to get tested when I hadn't gotten tested myself.

In my defense, I don't engage in "high-risk" activities: I'm a virgin, don't do needle drugs, and I'm pretty certain that my mother doesn't have HIV/AIDS, and therefore, I'm pretty certain I didn't contract the virus while I was still in/coming out of the womb. While I'm "low-risk," classifying myself as such creates a certain distance between "high-risk" individuals and me. It makes me feel like I'm not "one of them."

That feeling definitely disappeared when I was waiting for my test results. Real talk, I freaked out a little: I tried to remember if my pediatrician had swabbed the needles before he gave me shots, if the guys I've kissed had had any cuts in their mouths*, second-guessed whether or not I could get HIV from drinking after someone.

You name the potential risk, and I was thinking about it in the five minutes I had to wait for that test to come back. For a few scary seconds, I thought I had tested positive: The tester told me that each rectanglewould turn red if I was positive, and of course, both rectangles turned red. As he watched my face go into "WTF?!" mode, he clarified: A horizontal red bar would show up in each rectangle if I was positive. I only had one horizontal bar, so I was good.

Even though I was 99.9% sure I wasn't HIV+ before the test, going through the test really brought home the fact that HIV/AIDS does not discriminate. While that's something most people know, I feel like the meaning of that doesn't fully sink in until you're confronted with the possibility that you could be positive. When you're sitting in that chair getting tested, your risk level doesn't matter. You're at risk. You could have HIV/AIDS. Period.

When you're in that chair, HIV/AIDS becomes just another disease. Deadly, but no more difficult to contract than the flu. Gaining this perspective removes all conscious/subconscious value judgments you have about people with HIV/AIDS. As progressive, conscious, etc. as I believe myself to be, those value judgments were definitely there. Simply believing that I just couldn't possibly have HIV/AIDS was judgment enough. Taking that test got rid of that me/them dichotomy with a quickness. ...Only if there was a test like that for every high-and-mighty feeling I have. ::sigh::

*I mean I was thinking, "Did dude bite his jaw while he was eating? Did it have time to heal before we kissed?" Ridiculous, right? But you get an HIV test and tell me you don't have the same thoughts.

slowly returning to the blogosphere... MORE FUN FACTS!!!

1. Kenya recognizes Easter Monday as a national holiday. Why? To justify taking the Monday after Easter off.
2. Jinga is KiSwahili for ignant.
3. Toyotas are EVERYWHERE.
4. I've yet to see a house with carpet. (It makes sense though: Valuing clean floors + walking most places = tile floor b/c they're easier to clean.)
5. 2Pac is really popular.
6. Why did I see JaRule on the back of a matatu?
7. Kenyans prefer hot milk on cereals like Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies, etc.
8. Every so often, you'll hear the GucciMane "AYE!" for no reason
9. As much as merchants try to hustle and strangers point when they see mzungus walking down the street, Kenyans absolutely do NOT put up with public, obvious physical harassment of foreigners.
10. Folks'll ask for your email address before your phone number
11. Spoon > Fork
12. People say, "I'm coming" when they're leaving a place.
13. Rembo is KiSwahili for beautiful. Rembo doesn't have an antonym. If you want to call someone ugly, you must say "Wewe si rembo" (You are not beautiful). Therefore, you can only be the negation of beautiful. ...Ouch Swahili!
14. Houses are usually divided by cement walls.
15. The cement walls have broken bottles at the top to keep burglars from getting in.
16. The elevation of a child's slide and handicap ramps are near equal.
17. Matatus usually have Pimp My Ride-esque TVs in them to entertain/draw passengers.
18. People don't really crank up the base in their cars.
19. People's first names are usually out of the Bible. (I mean DEEP out the Bible. Like Josaphat and Rhesa.)
20. There're more wigs, weaves, and perms than fros.

It's a Texas thing.

In the last month, I've been on safari, to the beach, returned to a broken laptop that refused to be fixed, had a flooded bathroom that officially did my laptop in, written 3 papers, packed for a month-long stay in a new city, acclimated to that new city and started a 9-5 job, and started outlining a 15-page paper.

Clearly, I have good reason for not posting. I promise to start writing regularly again/update you guys on the cool ish that's been happening, but until then...

Texas pops up in THE randomest places here: Dallas Cowboys jackets in 80 degree heat, walking down the street and seeing that unmistakable burnt orange on a passerby, men in cowboy boots and hats to show they're important/powerful people, my Swahili teacher throwing up dem horns, etc., etc. Unfortunately, I don't have the pictures to prove it. ::sigh:: Anyway, all the Texas love in Kenya inspired me to rep in a variety of places...



In a tide pool on the Indian Ocean




At the top of Mt. Longonot




Still on top of Mt. Longonot... (I wasn't satisfied reppin sitting down... had to stand up for Texas =))




In a random barn in Meru



I think there are more pics of me reppin, but I have waaaaaaaay too many to pick through them. Anywhos, a little proof of the Texas-Kenya love affair:


Random club down the street from our compound in Nairobi


And has anyone noticed that Kenya looks like an upside down, distorted Texas?





Told ya.

Okay. I'm done. ...But you know I just had to dedicate a post to Texas.

the last thing i'll post for a few weeks because i'm going on safari and then to the beach...

My laptop only works if it's plugged up. My adapter broke right before my week-long stay in Tanzania. :-[

When I got back from Tanzania three Saturdays ago, my prof said he could find me a new one cheap, but I’d have to wait awhile for it. I was being shipped off for 3 weeks to a new host family. The computers I’d have access to were slow and didn’t have all my files. I did not have awhile. So I went combing Nairobi for a new cord. I found one for KSH2500 /=, or $35.00. Real value? $15.00 (KSH1125 /=) on Amazon (shipping and handling included). The special price the shopkeeper was offering only to me? KSH 1700 /=. Psh.

I left annoyed because I was paying extra for all the usual reasons: not being a good haggler, being American, the shopkeeper knowing I really wanted/needed [insert item here], etc., etc. But the transaction has me thinking about the real value of money.

Money is damn impersonal. Under the barter system, people pay each other thoughtfully: If I was shopping for a laptop cord in pre-colonial Kenya, I’d’ve paid in maize, mangoes, or whatever else I knew the shopkeeper needed for dinner that evening. But since I’m living in cash economy Kenya, I hand over bills I lie about not having because I couldn’t care less what they mean to the person I’m paying.

No wonder I wasn’t too annoyed about being overcharged: It’s not like I thought, “Hm. The shopkeeper might really need some extra food for dinner tonight,” picked some corn and beans, and went to her shop. If I’d done all that, I’d’ve insisted that she take what I had to give her because I considered what she needed and worked to get it for her. Instead, I walked to an ATM, punched in the amount I wanted, and went to the store thinking of a lie to get the price I thought I should pay.

And no wonder the shopkeeper didn’t mind exploiting me: I was anxious to get access to my computer. She knew I didn’t care if KSH 1700 =/ was or was not enough to feed her and/or her family. So why should she give a flip if I’m a “poor” college student?

Of course, money isn’t completely useless: Had I showed up with a basketful of corn or offered to buy her lunch, she probably would’ve laughed in my face. I didn’t know this woman. How would I have known that she needed food? Maybe she needed a new shirt, or some pens, or anything really. The barter system, then, only works if there’s a relationship between the two people. That being the case, money is a way of saying, “Hey. I really don’t know what you need. I’m sorry.”

It makes me sad that money doesn’t reflect the true value of anything. How can 4x2 bits of paper be equivalent to pictures to share with my host family; Lupe, R.E.M., and Visions to keep my mind right after 15+ hour day; a way to finally update ya’ll on my life? How can these bills be a sincere “Thank you” for access to those things when I’ve put no thought into how they’ll be used? How can you quantify appreciation and care?

20 Fun Facts about Kenya!

1. There’s so much cabbage. So. Much.
2. Nigga isn’t bleeped out on the radio.
3. It’s okay to eat hot dogs for breakfast.
4. Some Nairobians hate being spoken to in Swahili b/c they either a) don’t know Swahili or b) want you to speak English to them b/c that’s more “first world.”
5. Everyone wears fall/winter-appropriate attire. It’s at least 80 degrees outside everyday.
6. I’ve never seen so many Black hair care products. Unfortunately, most of them aren’t good for your hair…
7. Know how it’s illegal to drive on the shoulder or the wrong side of the road in the States? Yeah. That rule doesn’t exist here.
8. Heat like Texas, scenery like Florida.
9. “‘[insert random Africa-centric news show]’ coming up at 8:00PM Africa Time” ~CNBC’s African network.
10. Imagine listening to a Boys II Men-young Usher-Aaliyah mix while you shop for vegetables. …How do you feel?… That’s what it feels like to go shopping at Nakumatt (Kenya’s version of Walmart)
11. Shanty-type = Ratchet
12. Advice columns in the newspaper are on point. They be treatin folks!
13. In Kibera, there’s a beautiful anti-violence mural painted by the children there.
14. The “Birthday Sex” beat is the background for some random commercial…
15. Kenchic is the Kenyan equivalent to McDonald’s
16. Thank God, there’s no McDonald’s
17. No fro-hawks. YAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!
18. Kenyan accents are British
19. Ninakuona = I see you!
20. Ever wondered what happened to FUBU? I don't anymore...
    

Some things you just don't compare (or the last lesson i can put in words)

I’m sitting on a rock that’s been eroded by water, wind, bare feet, and the sun. Google Earth knows this place only by pixels. I’m physically here, being serenaded with an instrument that can’t be massed produced. There’s no wind tonight, so no one can hear this song and our singing and our dancing feet except us.

...my God, my God, my God…

-Wanda’s written journal, Wednesday, February 17th 2010



A view of the valley from the rock I was sitting on



One of the many hills we climbed to get to that rock



The Hadza and me acting silly before our random dance party



The fiddler on the rock =)

Lessons Learned from the Hadza - Privilege

None of the Hadza knew who Lil Wayne was. They didn’t ask us if we lived in the OC. They never wondered if we ate the kind of food they ate. They weren’t offended that we weren’t going to add them on Facebook because a) they don’t have Facebook and b) they wouldn’t want it if someone tried to sign them up for an account. In general, the Hadzabe didn’t give two damns about America.

Because of that, they didn’t seriously/jokingly ask us to take their children with us, or propose to us, or shake their heads at us because we weren’t up on the latest Hadzabe/Tanzanian/East African news.

And we loved it.

We loved not being idealized and envied. We loved not being judged for our ignorance of the wider world. We loved not being conflated with the power of our government. We loved not being held responsible for all the world’s ills.

Before staying with the Hadzabe, we had been living with and amongst people that were not shy about reminding us that we, as Americans, were very privileged people. Even though those reminders were “Mzungu!” and (skeptically) “You don’t have money?,” they were enough to make sure we remembered our place in this world.

When we stayed with the Hadzabe, we reveled in our break from social responsibility. In allowing our privilege to be swept under a rug, we stopped thinking about how we could correct the wrongs that our government, economic system, etc. commits against others around the world. We voluntarily forgot that our inability to act doesn’t excuse the oppression of others.

The Hadzabe allowed us to forget because they didn’t care about our responsibility to them and the rest of the world. They didn’t care because they didn’t see themselves (only) as victims of our privilege. In not focusing on how the “modern” world has disenfranchised them, the Hadzabe asserted their own sense of privilege/power, and thus, were not fazed by our status as citizens of an elite country. As noted in the last post, they have a power all their own. (Even still, that does not mean the privileged have no responsibility to them…)

After living with the Hadzabe, I’ve concluded that privilege is a state of mind that is actualized or suppressed depending on how we are able/allowed to use our immediate environment. If this is so, then privilege is the ability and permission to exercise the imagination: Outsiders see Mongo wa Mono and see a barren landscape that they need to be saved from. A Hadza sees it and can dig up a tuber big enough to feed her family. She has power. She has privilege. A Hadza might look at my laptop and see a useless piece of something that has no word in Hadzane. Among a host of other things, I see a way to raise awareness about their lives.



When we returned to Nairobi, we were greeted with the usual, “Mzungu, mzungu!” and general discomfort with our inability/apathy to act on the privilege we were being told we have. Thinking about how we were with the Hadzabe, how we are in Kenya, and how (relatively) less-privileged people treat us. I ask myself,

Where has our imagination gone and who’s holding it captive?

I feel like you should know something about the folks who taught me so much...

The Hadza hunt, forage, and migrate across Mongo wa Mono, the Yaeda Valley, and Eyasi regions of Tanzania. Since their focus is providing for their most essential physical and emotional needs, time is dedicated to hunting, finding the most plentiful vegetation, building new (temporary) villages, and learning the songs and dances that fill the time in between. There’s little room for war (intra- or extra-tribal), political leadership, or anything else that could get in the way of them staying alive, healthy, and happy. The constant moving, the amount of time it takes to get a few tubers for a day’s meal, the difficulty of catching and preparing a decent kill to feed the family, and the need to take a break from work all amount to a lifestyle that doesn’t allow them to give much thought to the future. Saving is unheard of. What’s available is only available for the now. If what they do nourishes them in the present moment, then their satisfied.

The Hadza’s lifestyle is admirable but can’t be emulated in our capitalist, “developed” world. We only know how to exploit the Hadza’s principles to serve our own interests. Case-in-point, the Tanzanian government’s efforts to gain economically from displacing the Hadza under the guise of “development” are directly benefited by the Hadza’s non-confrontational lifestyle: Under Land Act No. 4 and Village Land Act No. 5, the Tanzanian government is sanctioning pastoralists’ and farmers’ occupation of Hadza land. They reason that if the Hadza see others modeling a more “respectable” lifestyle, then they’ll become “civilized”. While the Tanzanian government’s disgust with the Hadza is (unfortunately) sincere drives their efforts to convert them, their more lucrative motivation is pressure from other governments to buy Hadza land. Such systematic, government-sanctioned ethnocide has dwindled the Hadza population from 5000 to 1800 in the past 3 decades.

The Hadza have no interest in farming or herding and are disgusted by game hunting, but won’t fight – physically or legally – their invaders because that’s just not how they operate. Instead, they move to parts of their land that haven’t been taken over by outsiders and rely on advocates like Dorobo Tours Ltd to represent them in government. Though they’ve survived thus far, their land and population shrinks every year.

To be honest, I wasn’t too shook when I read about the injustices levied against the Hadza; displaced and disenfranchised peoples are in East African news all the time. It wasn’t until we went hunting with them that their situation really hit me: One of the hunters spotted an impala. He was going to shoot it, but two pastoralists – one on either side of the impala – came herding their cattle. The impala ran off at the sound of 20+ stamping hooves. The worse part though was that these cattle were being herded through already-depleted land to a field that hadn’t been ate up yet. What hope is there for the Hadza when people legally scare off their lunch? How can they reasonably compete for food with animals that eat more for lunch than they can eat in a week?

But they don’t think in terms of weeks. When they see cattle grazing on their land, they see a field that just happens to be occupied at the time they want to use it and move on. This ability to live completely in the moment is their weakness and strength: If they don’t think of the future, they don’t think of their lifestyle being a memory in a few decades. If they don’t think of the future, then why would they create a plan to save their future selves?

But by living for today, they live completely fulfilling lives despite their disenfranchisement. If you told me that the Hadzabe weren’t proactive about fighting the injustices levied against them before I had lived with them, I would have thought that they felt too powerless to act. That is not the case at all. They don’t feel a need to act in harmony with the “modern” world. While that means they don’t represent themselves in the Tanzanian government*, it also means they understand that what they need can't be found in a dusty Parliament or court of law. What they need is in them, with them, and surrounding them. From this perspective the question becomes: Is there more power in gaining the upperhand over your enemy or in being able to fully sustain the self every day? I think the Hadza believe the latter.

*Hadza who have left the hunting/gathering lifestyle and advocates in Tanzania and elsewhere lobby on the Hadzabe’s behalf.

Lessons Learned from the Hadza - Identity Shmidentity

February 13th – 19th we had the privilege of talking, working, and living with the Hadzabe tribe of Tanzania. The Hadzabe are one of the last groups of hunter-gatherers in the world (?). The Tanzanian government is hoping to convert them into farmers. If they succeed, the Hadzabe’s traditional way of life will be extinct. I’ll give more details on the Hadzabe in a later post, but until then, lessons learned…

Lesson 1 – Identity shmidentity

On our first day with the Hadzabe, we had small group discussions with them. When we introduced ourselves, I got the curious stares and pleasant smiles that always come with being the black mzungu. Other than their initial reaction though, my Blackness didn’t matter. I was just another student, mzungu, American, and/or tourist to them. What mattered about my identity was not how I saw myself, but how they saw me.

Of course, that realization didn’t come until after I spent a good chunk of time reflecting on the tenuousness of identity. While I'm glad I have some fresh insight on identity/the self, I was definitely reflecting while I should have been asking the Hadza questions because of that whole you’ll-never-have-this-moment-again thing. ::sigh::

However, what I did glean from my ill-use of time is that insisting on being seen as Black first and American second homogenizes the experiences of all Black people: Kenyans describe themselves as Black, but their Blackness is shaped by experiences different from that of Black Americans (and other folks who define themselves as Black). If I make a point of calling myself Black here as a way to integrate myself into communities, social circles, etc., I tacitly assume that all Black experiences are the same and attempt to forge a solidarity between myself and all Black people that doesn't necessarily exist. Blackness, then, is a very local identity. As such, it can only be conferred or denied by the Black people in the area. Of course, this is an uncomfortable and debatable conclusion, but I find it to be a valuable one because it suggests that you can’t ever fully know yourself: If Blackness (or any other identity) must be conferred by another, then the self must be partially defined by someone that isn’t you.

If the self must be (in part) outwardly defined, then I lost a valuable opportunity to know myself better by pondering this “Am I Black still???” issue instead of asking the Hadzabe good questions about their lives and, what, exactly, makes them Black (if they do indeed define themselves as Black). Luckily, I resolved my mini-identity crisis the first day, so I didn't completely squander the week. When I really began engaging with the Hadzabe, maaan.... More later though...

Gladys,

Do you remember playing telephone with Abby, Cristina, and me? We were boy-crazy, giggling 6th graders. I said something stupid and mean to make Abby cry. I don't remember you glaring at me, but I know you did. You weren't going to let unkindness slip by.

Of the few memories I have of you, that's the one that came to mind when I found out you had gone elsewhere. At first, I hated that my strongest memory of you was one I had to guess the details for, one I hadn't thought of until I heard that it was all I had left of you. But it fits: We were closest in 6th grade, so my heart caught what had slipped my mind. It preserved your conscience and kindness so I'd never forget that you stood for those two things most. Thank God for the power of spiritual intuition, eh?

When my mama told me you were gone, I had just reached the top of Mt. Longonot. I sat on the peak and cried. Through dust and tears, I could see the valley: It was vibrant and alive and everywhere, like you.

I love you Gladys. Thanks for nestling in my heart. See you later,

Wanda

ps...



Me, Cristina, and you at graduation. Remember how we cried b/c Abby wasn't there?




Mt. Longonot's valley ...The fog got in the way of my camera capturing its greenness. But I'm sure you know how vibrant it really is.

a lot to learn...*

Between Maggie's response to my "mzungus..." post and now, I've been doing quite a bit of (reluctant) thinking...

The change in voice between "google meru..." and "mzungus..." disturbs me. "Google Meru..." is open, introspective. "Mzungus..." is pretentiously sarcastic and the posterchild of intellectual elitism. "Mzungus..." makes me a lie: In that post, I don't let Kenya write its narrative through me. Instead, I analyze and critique a culture I've only been in four weeks. Of course, analysis and critique are not wholly inappropriate here; they're key parts of being engaged in an experience. The problem, though, is that there was no humility in my assessment, no hint that maybe I could be wrong. It was just good old-fashioned "objective" academic diarrhea of the word processor. (smh @ myself)

Having been in the formal education system for 15 years, I've had my fair share of the academic runs. While it's healthy to shit, it shouldn't go on for a long time. If it does, or you suspect something's up, you should probably check your system. So, without further ado, I'm checking my system.

So. What, exactly, is wrong with me? What's enabling me to (poorly) forge Kenya's hand? For one, I think thought my Blackness transferable. I can't tell you the number of times I've gone to a shop or street market with other kids on the program, started haggling (unsuccessfully) with the vendor, and thought, "Man, I probably be savin HELLAS if I wasn't with these White ppl..." The truth of the matter is that my broken Swahili, Texas accent, and myriad other dead giveaways that I'm probably not aware of let's Kenyans know with a quickness that I'm American.

Now, don't get me wrong, having dark skin does grant me some privileges: I can walk down the street by myself and no one stares at me. I can... uh... I can... ummmm... damn. hm. I guess that's about it.

Clearly, my Black card has (extremely) limited currency here. Yes, when I talk to Kenyans, they're happy that I'm Black and I'm here. They immediately call me sister, whereas White students have to wait a while to hear that or never hear it. But I'm familiar enough with the culture to know sister is not an instant conferral of the privileges and burdens of being Kenyan.

All of the above should be self-evident, and it is (and was). But here's the thing: I bought into the transferability of my Blackness because I just straight up did not (and do not) enjoy being made synonymous with my White friends. While I realize that American/class identity trumps racial identity here, it's disconcerting that I'm seen as basically the same as students who hold (and accidentally express) tacitly racist views: i.e., A guy asked me if we were good enough friends for him to crack Black jokes. Quite a few of the students (sometimes) switch to "hip hop slang" (whatever that means, but I know you know what I'm talking about) when they talk to me. etc., etc.

Disconcerting as it may be, the Kenyans who call me mzungu - and, in doing so, lump me together with my tacitly racist White friends - may be on to something: I mean, did I not expect discounts at the street market? Did I not (wrongly) feel like an insider and smugly smh when I instantly understood fostering (unofficially adopting children in the family) when my White friends didn't? Have I not hoped for Black privilege?


...shit...

*maggie, if you're reading, don't think of this as biting. the perspective you've shared in your response and on your blog inspires me.

mzungus money and power (or lack thereof...)

After church last Sunday, we came back to my host family’s house for the usual (Meru) Sunday dinner: sukumawiki, moshimo (mashed food), chapati, ugali, etc. I was having a conversation in the living room with my friend Yvonne and Kandi when two young men came to the house, and one, Jayd, immediately started talking to me: Do you like Lady Gaga? Have you heard of so-in-so? What’s it like in the States?

It was nice small talk until he got giggly as a schoolgirl and whispered to me, “Okay. I have this crazy dream. I’ve always dreamed of moving to America and marrying a mzungu.”

::facepalm::

For those of you unaware (or holding out on googling it in anticipation of me explaining), mzungu is the KiSwahili word used to refer to foreigners, specifically Americans and Europeans, usually White people, but also Americans and Europeans who can’t pass for African. Since my neighborhood was more like a small town, everyone knew everyone and everyone knew everyone’s business. Thus, everyone knew I was a visitor from America. Thus, I couldn’t pass. Thus, Jayd’s comment. Sigh.

Anyway. I wasn’t particularly offended. Eight-ish years since the start of puberty, two of them having been spent in Saint Louis, I’ve been on the receiving end of enough inappropriate passes to not bat an eye. What has me writing about Jayd’s comment, then, is what it says about the perspective of young people, particularly young men, living in rural Kenya.

Before Jayd began telling me his “crazy dream,” his tone was conversational: He didn’t talk too fast or too slow; he looked me in the eye; he never hesitated or stuttered. I took the giggling and whispering that cloaked Jayd’s comment, then, as an indication of bashfulness, as a sign that he thought his “dream” ludicrous. When you say something like that, I sincerely hope that you don’t take yourself seriously, so there’s nothing particularly remarkable about that observation. However, when I asked him what mzungu meant, his explanation shined a light on his perception of self:

He told me a mzungu was someone of high class, someone who doesn’t bring people down; that an African can never be a mzungu because Africans are always trying to stop their brothers and sisters from coming up.

Ouch. Self-hatred much?

A quick analysis of Jayd’s definition, the formal definition ala wikipedia, and my experiences with the word suggests that mzungu is a slur that simultaneously conflates American and European national identity with each respective nation’s power; gives users a pseudo-power over the targets of their slur; and denies the power of African peoples in general.

Though Jayd was joking, his marriage proposal is a tacit way of saying, “Take me to America with you. Make possible the opportunity I can’t have in Africa.” The assumption/implication of “I want to marry a mzungu” is that I have the power (read: money) to sponsor his long-term stay in the States. Such an assumption comes from a conflation of America the nation and American nationality.

How come some Africans (and probably people of many other “underdeveloped” nations) make this conflation? A quick look at TV gives us the answer. While in Meru I spent some time channel surfing. Top item on the news: U.S. pulling out funding for Kenya’s education system. The only thing covered more was Kenya’s constitution and the riot story. The fact that U.S.’s doings in Kenya ranked so highly in Kenyan news coverage suggests that the Kenyan gov’t, and by proxy, the Kenyan people, see America as influential and important. Though the Kenyan gov’t also said that they could do without the funds of powerful nations, it still used the U.S.’s decision to stir up controversy – again, an indication that Kenya views America as powerful.

To counterbalance the ostensible power of Americans (and others from wealthy nations), Kenyans call us muzungu. The first time I felt the sting of “muzungu” was when Jayd went to greet people at my host family’s door and said, “[Something in KiSwahili] mzungu. [More in KiSwahili] mzungu!”

I told him the term annoyed me, and he stopped calling me mzungu when I couldn’t understand what else he was saying. In this way, he abandoned the pseudo-power he could have had over me. When he was calling me mzungu though, he was reducing my identity to my (supposed) money. If I’m money, then I’m just a greenish/pinkish piece of paper to be spent and recycled for another’s use. But, of course, I am not my (supposed) money. Hence, pseudo-power.

Closely related to the pseudo-power of muzungu is the fact that it robs its users of their own power. As defined earlier, mzungu is someone who is American/European and has money. To call me mzungu is also to say, “I am not mzungu.” Tacitly, this says, “I am not American. I do not have power.” The user of mzungu can refute this implication with his or her actions. I have no idea what Jayd did (or does) on his spare time so I can’t say to what extent he felt he had power in the world. However, a conversation a few days after the “crazy dream” conversation gave me a glimpse into his sense of power.

We were sitting on a porch and he again asked me to marry him. I told him no, and he said, “Okay, okay. …Can I be your African nigga?”

Real talk, I died laughing when he said it. Talk about culture shock. I guess Audrey’s right, “That’s globalization for ya!” Anyway. I asked him what nigga meant to him. His response: Someone who’s useless and can be used anyway you want.

Damn. Though I debated with him for a little while, I couldn’t (and wouldn’t’ve) refuted the man. His definition captured the implications of what it means to be a nigga: By definition, a nigga is someone who is ignorant, and therefore, easily manipulated. For Jayd to see himself as a nigga is for him to proverbially shoot himself in the foot before the race (to America, or success in general) begins. So much for self-empowerment.

Sigh.

Though Jayd was the only young person I had an in-depth conversation with about mzungu, many young men I met expressed the negative self-perception and/or a desire to not be African (whatever that means). Young women, however, seemed to not see a conflict between life in Meru (and/or Africa) and a successful life/healthy self-perception. Even still, young women would ask me to take their children to America… It seems, then, to be either an identity crisis amongst young Kenyan men, a silence amongst young Kenyan women about their real goals, or both.

google meru. i don't have pictures up yet.

From January 21st to January 30th, I was either in route to, in, or returning from Meru, Kenya. Meru is a town, tribe, language (formally, it's called KiMeru) in Eastern Kenya near Mt. Kenya. There's a lot to say about it, so there'll be more posts than this. But below is the first thing I wanted to say about Meru... (Oh, and pics will be up by the end of the week.)

I spent the 7-hour bus ride back to Nairobi figuring out what I wanted to say here, which pictures I wanted to upload to Facebook, how I wanted to remember Meru. The narrative I’m constructing about my time here would be more about what I want to say about Kenya and less about what Kenya wants to tell me about itself if I didn’t know wakia pembe means roasted corn in KiMeru.

Yvonne, a friend I made while in Meru, taught me several words in KiMeru. I never saw a point in remembering any of it until the day I forgot who her mother was. I was walking with my host mother when Yvonne’s mother passed by. Though I had met her at church earlier in the week, I had completely forgotten her face, and, consequentially, walked by her without saying hello. My host mother called me back, and I bashfully admitted that I didn’t remember her. She was disappointed. Her slightly drooped mouth and heavy eyes asked me why I couldn't remember my friend's - her child's - mother? Was I not a part of their community? Folk remember folk here. Wasn't I folk like them?

She quickly forgave my lapse of memory, but I can’t forget her disappointment. It was in that moment that I knew I couldn’t actively forget certain aspects of my experience simply because I didn’t think of them as relevant beyond the time I’d be there. If I chose to block out the KiMeru Yvonne was trying to teach me because I probably wasn’t going to use it after I left, then I could forget her mother – and other people in the community – because I might not see them again.

Such an attitude seeks to evaluate the usefulness of an experience based on (very) limited assumptions. Such an attitude resists changes in perception and worldview. Clearly, such an attitude cannot survive abroad.

In my first blog post, I made a commitment to reject that very attitude. Bad habits die hard though. Seeing Mama Yvonne’s disappointment brought the necessity and importance of my commitment home to me. After that moment, I was open to letting Yvonne, the people of Meru, the students walking down the street from school, the cattle being herded on the road, the slopes of mountains and hills – the whole of Kenya – write its narrative through me.

well supplied

real talk, it's been a lonely few days. there've been great times, and i really am enjoying the country, but at the end of the day, i'm plagued by the fact that i'm here with 20+ people i don't know but whom all know each other. they're sweet folks, and are sensitive to the fact that i might feel out of place b/c i don't have 3ish years of history with them. they make attempts to talk to me, say good morning, include me in conversations. really, i couldn't ask for a friendlier group of folk. i just wish my logic and good sense would filter down to my case of the lonelies when they hit. -_-

if i wasn't God's kid, i'm sure i'd wallow in this. but He won't allow it.

i was in the common room earlier, trying to be somewhat sociable, but decided to peace out because i felt so out of place. i retreated to the study room, turned on my gospel music, and kinda drifted to sleep. then i got a really unexpected IM. after listening to me emote for a bit, my friend gave me some advice and made me feel less silly about how i felt. all i really needed was someone to talk to, ya know? i would've been cool if he'd just let me say what i wanted to say, gave me a virtual pat on the back, and let me be on my way...

but, God being God, He had to let me know that He was all up in this conversation, that He wasnt going to let me mess up this opportunity: after giving me some general advice, my friend said, "skype and gchat can be a godsend, if you are on at the right times and don't mind losing sleep."

God is a bit snarky isnt He? anyway, i signed off, then felt led to read Psalms 139. peep 7, 9-12:

"Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? ... If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast. If I say, 'Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,' even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you."

heh. i mean, i would say more, but i think Psalms said it for me. anyway. i'm good now. gunna keep pushing on this social tip. don't worry bout me ya'll. i'll be fine =)


(...oh God, your power is here.)

a few highlights

soccer!
the compound i live on houses the study abroaders, the professors, groundskeepers, laundry staff, cooks, etc. so, i live with other students and kenyan families. there're kids running around, old(er) folks that are hilarious, etc., etc. it's like living within 5 minutes of your grandma, cousins, aunts, etc. it's awesome. anyway.

families = lots of kids. lots of kids = lots of play! so i played a pickup game of soccer with a couple of them. got my butt whomped! but not for a lack of trying: i was sure running after (then past) that ball. tried to do one of those cool soccer slides into the goal. FAIL! definitely grass-stained up and hair was sweated out. but damn i felt open: when you're playing soccer, there's no one set of moves that'll get the right end result. it's a lot of improvising and split-second judgments. being in the moment and going with my instincts is something i struggle with. that game of soccer really opened up the spontaneity section of my brain. i'm hoping the rest of the trip is like that.... =)


being in a country full of black people
i know that when kenyans see me and the other students, they don't think, "oh, why is that black girl with those white students?" instead, they're thinking, "americans." because the majority of kenyans consider nationality before race, "black" has a different meaning in kenya. clearly, i haven't figured out what the nuances are, but i'll see soon enough... =) despite that, it's still great to just be in a country full of black folk: i've gotten so many ideas about what to do with my hair just by going to the store; i don't have to look extra hard for the blow dryer with the attachable comb; stores play music by black americans; at the museum, the models of the homo sapiens were black with curly hair.


the food
fresh fruit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; well-seasoned vegetables; well-cooked meat. i love not eating processed food.


bonus: quoteable quotes!
(meeting ujao, our bus driver, at the airport)
ujao: hi, my name is jao.
me: is that your name or are you greeting me? (i couldn't hear "hi my name is" b/c of the accent...)


(at an orientation meeting)
warimu (teacher): "what do catepillars do when they crawl on you?"

PJ (fellow study abroader): "they tickle!"

warimu: "no. they sting." (they really do sting... :-\)

gracegracegracegrace

“But God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ – by grace you have been saved – and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the ages to come he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.” –Ephesians 2:4-7

I was looking for a verse to compliment this post, and quoted the first one I saw that said “grace.” Real talk, the focus of this verse isn’t grace*, but I’m putting it up as an epigraph anyway. My Bible doesn’t have an index of frequently used terms/words and their corresponding verses, and I really wasn’t trying to flip through page after page looking for a verse on grace that reflects what I'm about to say. Apologies for being a lazy (Bible) scholar, but it’s been a long, wonderful, enriching, challenging 3 or 4 days.

Anyway. Ephesians 2:4-7 stuck out fairly literally: The translation I’m working with (The Harper Collins Study Bible) offsets “by grace you have been saved” with dashes. The translators might as well have put “by grace…” in purple. The bold rhetorical and visual effect of dashes makes readers focus on what’s inscribed in them. I feel like those dashes were God’s way of giving me a spiritual focus for this trip. I need grace, and I need to know I need grace, and I need to accept that I need grace, and I need to accept grace, and I need to learn to give grace.

I feel like God has moved on all these fronts in the past 72-96 hours. My most recent “EH YO! DON’T FORGET ABOUT GRACE!” moment was me half-crawling, half-climbing on to this bunkbed so I could write this entry: In the past four days, I’ve slept less than 8 hours. This is not the normal WashU not-sleeping. This is pack the night before you go, can’t sleep on the plane because turbulence keeps you up and you’re really not supposed to sleep in a sitting position in the first place, drag 100+ lbs of luggage across two international airports, get charged unexpected fees, land at 7am but your body knows its really 3am, drag more luggage, unpack, walk 2 miles, pay close attention at orientation b/c the info is actually useful kinda not-sleeping.

Try climbing into a bunk with that on your back. … Clearly, grace got me on this bunk.

Which, of course, begs the question, “What is grace?” Looking at ol' Ephesians up there, I feel like grace is that thing that overwhelms the human for the glory of God. And, like I said before, I need it, need to know I need it, etc. A lot of examples of how God has been teaching me about grace has been rolling around as of late. The one that sticks out to me most is this whole race/university situation.

As I’m sure you’ll be unsurprised to know, I’m the only Black student on this trip. I am one of two WashU students. Real talk, it’s hard not being able to refer to Black culture or WashUness. While I can talk to the other WashU student about WashU things, it just isn’t the same as it is with my close friends. It sucks sometimes. My human-ness wants me to crawl up and be anti-social and not see how some of the St. Lawrence kids are trying to be sensitive to the fact that I’m not one of them. My ability to stay social is acceptance of grace. The act of writing this to you is an admittance that I need grace. When one of the St. Lawrence kids does rub me the wrong way, I correct him/her without treating his/her life (too much). That’s giving (some) grace. Real talk, it’s gunna take some grace to deal with some of these people, but that’s part of what God’s teaching me right?

Lord. I’m tired.

I want to get deeper into this grace thing, but ima have to catch you guys later. And I’ll try to reply to comments when I have time and energy to give a thoughtful response to each of you =)

*it’d be greatly appreciated if some of you could post a verse or two that deals directly with it

after this, i'm going to beni hana's

I've spent a week avoiding and creating this blog. My issues with blogging aside, I was most afraid of posting my thoughts balls-out on a somewhat-regular basis. I wasn't going to let fear have me, so I set my phone alarm to ring at midnight - every night - until I made the damn thing. After 7 reminders to blog dammit! I finally made a domain name.

Truth be told, you should have been reading this post Monday night/Tuesday morning, but I got wrapped up in designing my page. I'm a perfectionist and I wanted my blog to look exactly the way I imagined it. I spent forever looking for layouts then, well, I'm sure you can see FUCK IT written all over the white space.

I'm quite irked that I can't bring my vision of this blog to fruition (at least in a design sense). The fear, perfectionism, FUCK IT, and irkedness that have kept me from this blog are the story of my life: When I finally try something new and things don't go according to my plan, I FUCK IT and move on to something else, annoyed.

Determinedly, I didn't let my designfail keep me from blogging. I guess you can say I'm changing the plot of my story then, right? And if you don't say it, I am: I'm changing the plot of my story. Bye-bye perfectionism! Hello negative capability!

As a first step in leaving doors open and things untidy, this blog will have plenty of posts that have nothing to do with my time in Kenya, that may be TMI, that will sight-see through my thoughts without any destination, that may have nothing to do with me. Get used to it or don't subscribe.



Anyway. I'm in Kenya for the next four months. I've really been trying not to think about it. Maybe I'll say more later to keep ya'll from reading an overly-long post. =]