what could be more terrifying?

I wrote this back in early April. Perhaps, being too close at the time, I couldn't post. But now, in the interest of honesty and with some reflection, thought it might be ok to share.

What could be more terrifying

Than looking into his face

His childish face

At my window

Begging me for something

Anything to ease the hunger

He carries with him everywhere

But I do look

I look deep into his eyes

As his hand holds onto my door

His seven year old hand

I look deep into his eyes

And see someone who is anything

But a child

And I look across the street at the ground

That ground

Where he will most likely pass the night

It is deep, rich earth

Moist and saturated with the rains

Perhaps the concrete will be more

Inviting tonight

Cradling his small bones

With her rocks and crevices

I look down at his feet

Those feet

Bare and dusty from his travels

What could be more terrifying

than looking into his face

Deep into his eyes

And seeing

That he is just a child

My child, any child

Out there on the street

I looked deep into his eyes

And I drove by

What could be more terrifying

Than who I have become?

What has been so disturbing to me are the constant articles about child sorcery. It is a common problem in Kinshasa that children are thrown out of their homes after being accused of sorcery or witchcraft. Many are beaten or taken to churches to undergo rituals of exorcism. There are lists of random “signs” of being possessed and they range from leaving a bedroom door open at night to sneezing too often. Some children report their mother simply said, “You eat too much.” 

And so this evening as I sat in the miles of traffic and was approached by the endless beggars of the road, I made myself really look at the children outside my door. One in particular, so young, I looked deep into his eyes searching for the thing that could allow a mother to throw her child out. This looking deep was not easy. I wanted to open my door, invite him in and take him home.  But I can’t save them all. When the traffic comes to a standstill, the streets literally fill up with handicapped, homeless, hungry humans.   

It is no longer faces on a tv commercial. It is no longer something happening a continent away. It’s here, outside my door. I can roll my window down and touch the hand of a lonely, starving child. I can’t stop the tears from welling up because this boy is alone and my two children are in the back munching chips and feeling loved.  I cry all the way home through stalled traffic and honking horns. I cry as I make dinner and correct my students’ papers. I don’t want to be this person that drives away from a seven year old on the street. I stop myself from going back and I make up crazy plans and wonder if they are crazy after all. I can’t continue to live like this, with myself. I can’t continue to drive by a child. I wonder if I can rent a house. I wonder if helping five children would make it any easier. Would it satisfy me? Would I feel like it’s enough? I wonder how I can truly make it happen and if I have the courage. Mostly I wonder what on earth has happened to us humans to make this our reality.

As I read- most recently Malalai Joya- which reminds me remarkably of Benazair Bhutto- I have this perspective of looking down from above. It is what I imagine God must see looking out over us humans. It is deeply disturbing, something gone horribly wrong. It is century after century of war and violence, slavery, brutality, humans hurting humans. There are small pockets fighting for change, looking for the brighter path. But so much of it is covered in the blood and misery that we have brought to each other. It is completely overwhelming to me.  

 

danse toujour

Some dreams have a way of sneaking up on you. They’re the kind of dreams you hold onto in the back of your mind, the ones that you visualize before falling asleep or when you’re taking a long ride on a hot and noisy bus. They’re the kind of dreams you recognize in the movies and say, “Yeah, that could be me.”  But it’s not really you even though you’ve been following all the steps that you think could possibly lead you there. It’s the kind of dream you hope happens, but you’re not really convinced will happen.

I guess there is something of a difference between a dream and a goal, although at times it feels like a dream is something you hold onto before it happens and a goal is what you call it once you’ve managed to achieve it---by whatever means. Several times in my life now, I’ve looked back to realize I have achieved quite a number of the things I set out to do and am a bit astonished to think I’ve reached my goals, actually  made them reality. Because much of the time, I feel like I am stumbling through life trying to make the best of the poor decisions from my youth.

It was during our spring break that I had the chance to experience that rare moment when you just know everything is going to be all right. I had thrown together something from my wardrobe that I felt would suffice, whatever black and white I had. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but it was me and it was comfortable.  I found myself tucked away in the back corner of a small open air bar, changing for my first performance in Congo, my first performance ever I guess I could truthfully add. Jacques handed me some clothes he said he’d purchased just for this event. He had mentioned it before but I had prepared for ill fitting clothes, too tight, too small, something that would make me self-conscious and unable to feel truly free.

The nervousness I had was only slight. I’d spent most of the day visualizing myself on stage, smiling, feeling the music, doing what I love to do most.  Of course, I felt entirely uncertain it would go that way- I also spent a good bit of energy suffocating the thought that I might just freeze up and forget everything. It could happen.

However, as I slipped on the silky smooth black pants I was surprised by a comforting fit. The white cotton shirt was equally soothing. That was the moment I knew everything was going to be fine. I wasn’t going to forget the steps or freeze up. I was going to dance.

What I found is that being on stage can be quite deceptive. There is no audience. The lights leave you blinded and impossible as it seems, you could almost imagine yourself alone up there, practicing just as you do when you’re in the studio. I imagine the experienced performer can use that to their advantage and lose themselves in the music, the rhythms, the call of the audience.

And the audience did call. Being the only white face in a small troupe of African dancers leaves you nowhere to hide. The Congolese audience holds a potential to be quite candid. I was not sure how forgiving they would really be. “Mondele, mondele.”  The shouting began as soon as we took our first steps out. They continued pretty much throughout the entire 15 minute performance.  I was happy not to know what else they were saying but chose to interpret their cries as encouragement.

It took me some moments to forget the sheer fright of being on stage and simply feel the music. Once that happened, I fell in love. A pure joy of performing. I relished the moments just before stepping out into the lights when we exchanged a quick double hand grasp for encouragement. I loved it from the moment the drums reached in and spoke to my soul right up to the last moment when Coco’s hand reached out to find mine and we took our bow together. We rushed off stage and I was cascaded with congratulations and hugs. As the dancers drifted off to cool down and change, Jacques called them back. They encircled me once again and let out whooping calls and shrill whistles. Initiated. That’s how I felt. I’d done it, my first show.

I heard later that the audience wasn’t all that confident in me to begin with but eventually acquiesced. To be clear, I didn’t perform a heart stopping solo or a sensual Congolese grind, but I did keep up, remember the steps and perform as part of team. And that was the part that truly left me feeling exhilarated all night. The sense of having made a connection, a feeling of  belonging. It’s the part that keeps us human. And it’s why I love the practices as much as that final celebration of showing off how hard we’ve worked. It’s been a long time coming, feeling truly connected here in this foreign land caught between a myriad of worlds as I am.

We danced again the next night. Jacques had organized an amazing three days of dance and artistic performances by over 170 Congolese artists. The turnout was incredible and the range of talent breathtaking. I floated with giddy intoxication for the next several days, holding onto my memories like cherished treasures. Just before our second performance, one of the dancers grabbed my two hands in the customary quick shake and smiled, “toujour.” I hold it as a promise of possibility and good things to come.