Like a real blog

Most real blogs have a weekly list of some sort, links they liked from around the internet or quotes of the week that relate to their blogging theme. I have never really followed this format as I don't profess to be a "real blog" and I can't quite identify a "blogging theme."  Not to mention, I don't usually have tons of time to scour the net for witty and clever links to share. I feel lucky enough to keep somewhat aware of world happenings as I browse the headlines of the BBC.

But in the interest of keeping things interesting, I thought it might be worthwhile to write a weekly post about things I like here in Kinshasa. It's good to be grateful and focused on the positive, something that is all too easy to lose track of here in the city. I figure I won't make it a long list (not really sure how sustainable it will be to continue finding things I like in Kin) and it could even morph into "things I wonder about" or "questions that remain."

For this Friday, I have three ideas- things I like about living in Kinshasa (and I've even begun a list for the future- during an hour + traffic jam - things I don't like but suffer through....that's another post.) SO, in random order- things I notice and/or appreciate about living in Kinshasa:

1. Women police officers. I actually have a great appreciation for many of the police officers, especially the ones who help to right all the traffic wrongs of the city. Without them, a two hour jam could easily turn into an eternity. But what I really notice most often is the number of women police officers. Although everything I read suggests DRC has a long way to go in incorporating women into the military and police- this article says a mere 5.11% of police officers are women- and it's no secret that Congo has been called the worst place to be a woman. In fact, the only encouraging thing I could find about female police officers was this article from 2010 about a training center just outside Kisangani. However, in my day to day, I see a ton of female police officers. And that's just with my preliminary collection of data. I'm sure if I actually started counting, there would be a bunch more.  What I really mean is, they are visible. And that's the first step. If I was a young girl, I would see them out there and know it is a possibility.

2. My other two "likes" this week are a bit more personal. After a particularly hard sleep over (some of the kids stayed up until 2 am which meant mom didn't actually get to bed until 5am) I broke down and ordered pizza delivery for lunch. While this is a regular thing for many of the teachers on campus, it is something that just doesn't usually fit my budget (especially when I make a pretty mean pizza myself.) But, as any kid can tell you, there is something magical about delivery- having food piping hot and ready to eat brought to your doorstep-and so it seemed like just the treat to spice up a Kinshasa afternoon. Even more magical, O'Poeta pizza delivery guys arrive on motorcycle and this one managed to bring his moto up the driveway, over the  lawn and directly to our back door. Pizza delivery indeed. I barely had to get out of my chair. There are days when I can really appreciate that.

Mohamed and a friend collecting the delivery on our back porch

3. The last random thing I like about living in Kinshasa, here on campus specifically, is that sometimes I will be on my way somewhere, walking along lost in thoughts, when I look up and see this:

Sunset and a small piece of rain forest in my backyard

Yeah, I really live here. It's almost magical.

Keeping Clean

I finally managed to snap a sly shot of a street cleaner. It's not what I really wanted. Rather, I keep imagining a series of portraits- up close and personal photos of the Kinshasa street cleaners. Something about their work intrigues me, only part of it being the different way they costume themselves.

Street sweeper along the curb with mask in hand

Some wear masks, some wear hats, many fashion head and face coverings by wrapping t-shirts or scarves so that only their eyes are showing. All of them wear the required neon yellow vest. And they seem to line the streets at all hours. I see them in the morning, every 10 feet or so, dotted in zigzag lines up and down the roads, some taking the inside- the most dangerous placement between the cars - and some take the outside, along the curb. They're all armed with a small push broom and steadily sweep the dirt from their section. Some make little piles, miniature pyramids of dirt, while others appear with a dustpan and scoop the dirt up.

The street cleaning continues on into the night. I've seen them out there long after dark when the hour seems ridiculous for such work. Ten-thirty, eleven o'clock at night and they are still there. Not the same people perhaps, but the job continues.

I wonder how they know when they are done...have realized in fact, that is probably not the question. It is a job that will never end, cleaning dirt from the place where dirt is born. But they sweep with concentration and gusto and I wonder why. Do they get paid? It seems hard to imagine, if the police are frequently not paid, that there could be money for this. Who knows they are there, how is this operation organized and what would happen if they stopped?

I like to imagine the streets being overtaken by immense piles of dust and dirt, so strong and so tall that cars begin to have trouble passing through until eventually, the city starts to close down. The equivalent of a snow day in the northern US. Of course, it would never happen like that, but it makes for a comic picture.  After reading this article, I understand that sweeping the streets may be a necessary strategy for keeping the drainage systems less clogged (the proposal, written in 2007, could still be describing the city streets today, though the main streets are well paved and the drainage systems cleaned out on some sort of schedule---who knows where they cart the muck off to.)

Through-the-windshield picture of a street cleaner along the median

I am also aware sometime in one of the previous regimes, a cleaning routine was began. A sense of pride and order attempted to be instilled. I can't find the details on that, nor on the joggers. Another source of curiosity for me, mostly due to what I find to be, their unique running style. The arms hang down by the sides, stiff and not really moving.  But it is a small curiosity. I remain enamored with the street cleaners and can imagine portrait after portrait alongside small stories about their lives. They are men and women, young and old, well-dressed and outfitted in rags. It is such a diverse mix of people attacking the same boring job every day and finding worth and purpose in what they do.

I suppose, in many ways, that is what attracts me most. Their perseverance. I am reminded of The Sky Sweeper, a beautiful tale about a Flower Keeper, whose job is to sweep away the fallen plum and cherry blossoms. It is a somewhat thankless job that no one seems to really appreciate until, of course, he is no longer around to do it. The blossoms pile up- much like my imagined drifts of snow dirt- making the garden paths unusable. But in his life, the flower keeper, Takeboki, was humble and happy and perfectly pleased to perform his job everyday. He found satisfaction in the clean and orderly, in the beauty of the flowers- fallen though they might be- and in knowing his purpose.

I fear I might get lost in the purposeless position of re-cleaning the same street everyday. A small square of an endless stretch of road. I would be tempted to give in to being overwhelmed and disheartened. But they carry on, day after day, stable in their commitment to keeping things clean.

Mountains of gold

Are there really mountains that turn gold and red and orange? I remember that ride down highways and thruways. And I understand how it seems like a dream. Mountains of gold. An American dream. I don't miss America. But I do miss her mountains.

Home Depot

Once upon a time I had a junk drawer filled with bits and pieces of inspiration. Nuts and bolts and rocks. Little things useful for nothing and yet, useful for everything. I knew then, somewhere back in an old, old post you can find it, I knew it would be one of the things I missed. Little things to pick up and create something else entirely with my hands.

Because we are all stuck here in Kinshasa this summer, it's just my hands that get restless. And this sense of failure that I can't entertain my boys. There are plenty of websites that say- it's good for kids to get bored- to create games of their own and find a solution to occupying themselves. I believe in this. I believe in made up games and inventions. I believe that life is not a circus and the greatest asset is having skills. Some kind of passion and motivation that moves you to create and design and develop to keep the mind occupied and the hands busy. Sure enough, sometime around 2 o'clock this afternoon they let me know they were going "spying." They donned their best gear and went out into the world armed with their imaginations, ready to fight the good fight against the imaginary bad guys- not the electronic ones.

Once upon a time I did the same thing. We were a small group of neighborhood kids. We loved to play Transformers. Apparently the Transformers are still around. I marvel at the things that still exist. The movies that continue to be remade, the music that just incorporates sounds from my youth as opposed to creating new sounds. I've heard the quote, from somewhere, here perhaps, something about everything being a remake. It;s impossible for artists to have truly new ideas. But still, I am left with a sad feeling, when I hear songs from my 8h grade prom folded into the newest remix. I guess, in the end, it makes me feel closer to my kids. We can still listen to the same music, no need to hide behind teenage closed doors. Not yet, hopefully never.

But once upon a time,  I was a person who started a business. Drifting Woods. And I scoured the banks of the reservoir, picking up bits and pieces of wood, fashioning them into lamps and tables and boxes. I can't remember who that person is, that shamefacedly tried to sell bits and pieces of nothing, no solid craft behind her, boxes with crooked edges and hinges slightly off. I had power tools at my disposal and Home Depot. I miss Home Depot. Home of the entrepreneur. I had a love of art and belief in myself that I can't quite remember now.

Instead, I am left to question what it means to be white in Africa. Because, while I've always questioned what it means to be American. I am not sure I have ever really examined what it means to be white. It's on every Black kids list, African or not. What it means to be black. If you ask students to make a list of who they are, inevitably the black kids write Black and the white kids write nothing.

But I have a friend who told me in her seventh grade year she set out for two goals, to lose weight and to understand what it means to be Black. Most white kids never go through this. Identity seeking on the basis of skin color. White kids just don't think that way. In America.

In Africa, you get a chance to be the minority. To be white. And to feel the frustration of why you can't just drive down the street without being a target, why you can't just go shopping and get a fair price, of why all the artists call you up and want to meet with you. Second guessing, every single minute, what do they want from me? Friendship? Advantage? Connection? Prestige?

Because, being white in Africa, is never just about being in Africa. It's always about second guessing. Never really being sure.  And I guess it's just the equivalent of being Black in America. You never really know what's about skin color, what's about economic status, what's about who you truly are. Everyone should experience it. The frustration, the doubt, the constant worry about what is real versus what's imagined. Being a foreigner in a strange land- and caring about it. Not just a tourist, but someone who lives there.

Because this is us now. Living here, in Kinshasa, no vacation to fly off to, no family to go visit and welcome us with loving, open arms. How we missed you. Nope. We are just here. And I miss the hardware store. Because at the end of the day, making a cozy home, with painted walls and fun fixings is what gives comfort. Traveling down to Victoire and haggling with prices three times the worth only reminds me - I'm white in Africa.

I suppose the only thing that can help me is the language. I understand it but can't yet speak it. A summer project perhaps. It will go a long way to helping me navigate the outside stalls and road side venues  that serve as our version of Home Depot. And right now, I really need a good good hardware store.

How I lost my faith and got it back again...for now

It's the eve of the boys grand departure- their first flight solo- and Mohamed has been sick for nearly a week.  He shares my great dislike of doctors which makes getting him healthy an even bigger challenge than might normally be the case. Of course, sickness in Congo is always a challenge.

When it comes to myself, I am quite happy to self-diagnose, self-medicate and travel through the journey of trying to figure out exactly what it is that ails me. It's a bit easier since I am able to feel the slight aches and pains and have some experience with my body. We know each other well. It's a lot harder to self-diagnose someone who isn't yourself. And if he is only 10, he's probably got a lot less experience with knowing not only what hurts and where, but how it hurts.

And if you happen to be that normally healthy, energetic 10 year old's mother, it's a lot harder to be objective and patient. But we do have a routine for dealing with sickness. It always begins with a trip to "clinic A" for a malaria test. Clinic A is helpful because they have a speedy, reliable test. Or so I am convinced. Because of the impending travel (some 6,000 miles, alone, on an airplane!) I thought perhaps we should see the doctor- just to make sure we'd covered all the bases.

Clinic A is always overpacked and overbooked. A long wait is certain. The benefits for me include only the fact that all fees are billed directly to my job and so I don't have to lay out any cash. Extremely convenient. While we were waiting to see the doctor, I took it upon myself to go ahead upstairs to the lab and get the malaria test. An hour or so later, we were finally in to see someone. We sat in front of his massive desk as he asked a few questions and then wrote out prescriptions for a malaria drug and a fever reducer. We already had the fever reducer and we hadn't yet received the results of the test. No headache or other pains had me feeling suspicious about whether this was really malaria. Of course, if you're a frequent reader, you'll know that it's always malaria, even when it's not.

I remember being, perhaps eleven, or maybe even into my teens when I realized- somewhat incredulously- the doctor was only asking questions. That's it?! What if I lied? What if I was mistaken? It seemed the entire diagnosis hinged on my answers to the questions. The entire medical process took a huge downward tumble in my rank of reliability.

But then there was the time in my early twenties when I suffered a miscarriage. I was in the midst of agony emotionally and physically when a doctor walked into the emergency room. He was clad in leather and shook his long hair out as he removed his motorcycle helmet. My entire faith in the medical world was restored for a moment as he asked kind questions and gently reassured me that the world would go on and I would have plenty of happy, healthy children.

My experiences with doctors have continued to rise and fall in such a manner. Complete faith and gratitude, complete disappointment and confusion. When I was living in Florida and pregnant with my youngest, I went to the doctor regularly for all the suggested maternal and prenatal appointments. I was in a state of disillusionment with all things medical at the time. Things really reached a new level of complexity and confusion when I arrived in NY to give birth. I was 9 months pregnant and due any day. I visited my long time obstetrician and in a matter of minutes she was able to tell me the baby was "head up" and I would need a cesarean. All from listening to the heartbeat with a stethoscope. No fancy equipment needed. Of course, my faith in her skyrocketed while my bewilderment at what exactly the other doctor had been doing only added to my confusion.

And then there was the time in my thirties when, after battling depression since my early teenage years, I'd finally gotten enough courage (perhaps desperation) to ask for something. Medication. To help me over a very great hump. I was told by my primary caregiver, after a quick review of some major life changes,  that "I'd only brought it on myself, hadn't I?" My faith once again plummeted.

I have become expert at knowing my body and it's needs. I've moved to a nearly all year sunny and warm climate, exercise with addiction and use a variety of essential oils and natural remedies to keep myself in balance.

I generally employ these methods for my children as well. They run when I come with the mint oil for head and body aches. They struggle to gulp down strong ginger teas peppered with cloves for whatever ails the stomach. And in general, they stay healthy (the best way to avoid all of mom's natural cures.)

Try as he might, Mohamed couldn't fake his way into feeling better. Anytime he felt my hand on his head, checking the temperature, he would pop up with a momentary smile and say, "What? Yeah, I'm ok." After a day or two of this, however, he began to sadly admit when he felt the fever returning (as if his drooping eyelids weren't evidence enough.)

Just as we were leaving the clinic, we ran into the lab technician who managed a surprised, "You're still here? Ok, wait for me." We trudged back upstairs to get the results. Negative. Great. Really, not having malaria was a huge relief. Except we'd already seen the doctor, who'd already prescribed a bunch of medicine that we didn't really need. And that had taken more than 2 hours.

Now what? We went back home, he gulped down more ginger tea, echinacea, some effervescent fever reducer (could we get some children's tylenol in liquid here people?!) and hoped the morning would bring a miraculous recovery. Despite my suspicions and the negative malaria test, I gave him a dose of Coartem, figuring at worst it could prove as a prophylactic.

The next morning did not bring full recovery and with only days to go before the trip across the ocean, we set out for Clinic B. Clinic B is rather expensive- well, for Africa I suppose, where it is still possible to pay for all your medical needs out of pocket if you happen to have an ex-pat salary. I admit to spending the morning raving about the ineffectiveness of doctors in general and their inability to do more than just guess (a mother's stress and hysteria does make one prone to stereotypical generalizations of the unkindest sort.) Aside from Clinic B, however, my only other options were full scale hospitals. Mohamed is a terrible patient and even getting him out to the clinics is an effort in cleverness and charm ( ok, threats and bribery.)

Clinic B is usually full, but not overpacked. There's always a wait, but it's not unbearable. There is only one doctor and one examination room. It's clean and sterile and open. The doctor is white haired and friendly. We sat at his massive desk while he asked a few questions. Then he told Mohamed to take off his shirt and lay on the examination table (a step we never got to at Clinic A, I noticed.) Doctor B took his temperature (38.7!) attempted to do a fahrenheit translation for me (no need, I told him as I'm getting pretty good at Celsius however,) felt his stomach and then looked into his mouth.

Ah ha! It was there, looking into his mouth, that he diagnosis tonsillitis. Step two in my self- medication routine- when it gets down to needing prescription meds- is usually antibiotics. I'd been about to go there with Mohamed but really didn't want to chance anything before the long plane ride.

So there it was. Faith restored. With a gentle touch, a look, a human interaction, the doctor was able to allay my fears and return me to the land of normal motherhood. (oh the worries and nightmares grow proportionately with each day of undiagnosed ill health.)

Once again, a tale of two doctors, two approaches, two different results. I guess I am back to feeling gratefully in awe of the medical profession. For now.

District Mont Amba

They come bearing gifts. Tomatoes, an eggplant, a batch of humus just made the night before. Friends, colleagues, people I barely know stop by to drop off their perishable food. It's food they can't eat in the small time before their departure from Kinshasa. They are bound for vacation, for trips abroad, for reunions at home in whatever land they lay claim to.

Since I am staying, I become a worthy recipient of these small items. I take them gratefully and hope that I too will have time to consume them before they perish. Wasted food makes my heart hurt. Sometimes, staying in Kinshasa has the same effect. I remain to witness the stories of those who cannot go.

While there are more and more recounts of brightness and positivity Kinshasa remains a city, an overwhelming city plagued with dangers. LOOK'iN is one example of a magazine that has great success taking the ordinary and splashing it across glossy pages to transform it into something glamorous. Browsing through its stories, one might begin to get a different image of daily life here. And to be certain, there is an element of culture, art and hope for the future. But for many, life in Kinsahsa remains a battle against fear and for survival of the individual.

It's only the second time a story of violence and apathy has reached me personally, but both times they arrived in a cloak of silence. I am amazed at this process. I welcome a friend to my door and pleasantries are exchanged. He's not so well he says, but still we focus on preparing food and he offers small gifts to the children in preparation for their voyage. He is disappointed because as he was getting out of the taxi, someone grabbed the shoes he bought, but he makes small talk as he hands over brightly colored baseball caps and jackets. Stolen shoes a mere inconvenience of life in Kin.

It's not until much later that he retreats to a bit of solitude and I approach quietly, with patience, to hear the real story. I've learned this is the only way to draw him out. "A man must reflect," he says when I ask if everything is ok. And again, we enter into a discussion that's not really related to the issue at all. More minutes pass before he finally lets me in.

It seems he was on his way- from somewhere to somewhere- the timing is not so clear. Out by 6ieme rue in Limete when he saw a boy that reminded him of his own son. Clean, well dressed. Just a boy walking home. And a gang appeared, gathered him up and began to cart him off. The boy is screaming for help, that he did not do anything and all the people along the road are just watching this. They are hearing his cries of "Where are you taking me?!" and they are doing nothing. It's the koluna, Kinshasa street gangs that are armed, violent and much feared. It seems they do pretty much whatever they want. We'd just been telling stories about them the night before. How, in a certain district, the people are in their homes by 7 pm afraid to come out again. The women who sell bread no longer go to the bakery in the wee hours of 3 and 4 am to collect their wares but wait until full morning light. They don't set out from their houses until 6 or 7 am.

In that night, my friend could see only his son. "I could not support this," he said, shaking his head in wonder at all those who stood by as the boy was beaten and robbed. He approached the group imploring them to leave the boy alone. They began to throw stones and direct their rage at him. He sent his friend off to the corner of the street to call down the police who had gathered there. Eventually the boy was free enough to be sent off running, clothes in tatters, blood streaming down his face and devoid of his telephone and other personal items. When the police arrived, my friend was livid. He exploded in a rage of questions. "How could you just stand there watching?! Can't you tell it is not this boy, clean, well dressed, obviously a student with a family, who has done something wrong?" And the police just shook their heads and said, "It's always like that."

No, it's not always like that. And it needn't be like that if there were repercussions. In our talk the previous night, we discussed how the street gangs often share their loot with the police, or how, if arrested, their friends might show up to pay off the officers who would then release them. It seems a circle of violence and apathy. And what ended up disturbing us both that night was not necessarily the violence but the people. It's the people who don't see their sons or daughters in the faces of the victims. The people who live without security and are consumed by a fear so great they choose to close their eyes and their conscience to the tragedies around them.

That's just one story of daily life here in Kinshasa, without the glitter and the glitz. I imagine a dozen or more similar events played out across the city last night. A real life Gotham City.

Denied

Sometimes I hold onto a post because I'm waiting to get the right photograph, occasionally a tricky thing here in Kinshasa.  My street sweeper post is one example. It's an idea that's been rolling around in my mind for awhile but it really needs a few good images to go with it.

This post I've been holding onto just because it makes me so angry my words get all muddled and stop making sense after awhile. They just become one long rant, which isn't very interesting to read- or to write. Time doesn't really make it easier however and so, after an incident with my favorite little brother, I've decided to try again.

It begins with

Article 13.

• (1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
• (2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.

It's a tricky thing,  Article 13 of the universal declaration of human rights. In our simplified study of the UN document this year, we interpreted this as 'the right to travel.' But the real language of the political document is important for what it actually says and what it specifically doesn't say. The intention of Article 13 seems to be preventing people from becoming prisoners within their own country (take North Korea for example) or secluding people of one race, ethnicity or gender into one area (pick any country for an example of this- the US, Palestine, South Africa, Singapore.) Further research leads to topics of migrant workers and other 'hidden' issues that seem to develop within a specific country. All of these efforts appear completely undone (as political documents always seem to contain) by the caveat:

3. The above-mentioned rights shall not be subject to any restrictions except those which are provided by law, are necessary to protect national security, public order (ordre public), public health or morals or the rights and freedoms of others, and are consistent with the other rights recognized in the present Covenant.

Aside from issues of national security, the article focuses on the ability to leave an area or country and does nothing to ensure there will actually be a place to go. Because countries are completely free to limit who can enter. There are a range of requirements upon entering a country, based, it seems, on how 'desirable' it is to live there. The more desirable, the harder to get in. Impossible, in fact, if you happen to be born in one of the 'less desirable countries' and are hoping to exercise your right to  movement and travel around a bit.

Of course, the determination of which countries are more desirable, versus less, is calculated by cash- how much money do the people  living there make? Is it enough to compel them to return. As if economics were the only way to determine satisfaction with life.

It may sound preposterous to some, but it is possible to live in a third world country and be completely enamored with your life. To have no desire to start completely over, leave everything behind and set up shop in a country which you don't even speak the language. I suppose this may be the stereotypical immigrant dream....but that's where stereotypical comes in. I would venture to say plenty of people value the work they can accomplish and the family they have created, the small steps toward their dreams over beginning anew with nothing. It is not an adventure for the faint of heart.

Not to mention the whole 'big fish small pond' syndrome. Many Congolese have reached a status here in the capital that they are not ready to give up. Being successful is not such a small thing, but when compared to heading off to the US for an ordinary  life of merely scraping by......there's really no comparing. They are practically stars here- validated for the time and effort and talent they give. I'm sure I am rambling here....but I really haven't witnessed anywhere else the kind of patriotism I see in Congolese artists. They want to stay.

They give their time freely, invest their own money for costumes and uniforms for their students, and volunteer to teach the youth of their neighborhood in order to instill a sense of pride and personal value. They do it because they are committed to their art and to their country. And they don't aspire to live in France or the US, though they may like to broaden their horizons by experiencing the world.

Try explaining all of that to the consular. 

I imagine conversations begin casually, as did mine. With a feeling of gratitude and generosity. A feeling of wanting to reciprocate the goodwill that has been offered to you by inviting someone to your home country. But if you happen to be American, you need to pick your friends carefully. Because not everyone can visit the US.

I plan to be traveling to the US in late July and thought it would be a much better trip if I had a friend to accompany me. We followed all the rules and regulations outlined by the embassy. We collected all the paperwork (including two work contracts, examples of events organized for the benefit of children and students living here in Kinshasa and proof of family ties.) Visa applicants must conduct their interview alone and so I am told it went fairly quickly. All the papers were presented and the interviewing officer said, "Thank you, sorry you haven't proven beyond doubt that you will return" and handed a pre-printed form letter outlining the denial. Except it didn't really provide any specific information, just that he wasn't convinced.

The US Embassy clearly states that the burden of convincing the consular you will return rests solely with the applicant. But it seems very apparent the only thing they are looking for is a lot of cash in the bank. Which kind of seems contradictory to me because if you have a lot of money, you are more likely to be able to set up shop in a new country. I understand the concern isn't so much staying in the US, but rather it's about not becoming dependent on the state to support you.

The whole process is simply frustrating, however, when you think you've gathered all the required documents (did I mention the 2 work contracts for the coming school year? Actual jobs that pay well above what the average Congolese is earning...) only to be told it's not enough.

Of course, I am too well acquainted with the other side of immigration. The desperate immigrant who only wants to find a way out of his trappings and into what he believes will be an easy, carefree life paved with gold. My little brother falls into this category I believe.

Just yesterday he showed me a link to this site which advertises a public health conference in Canada. It has all the signs of a very fake site, a scam to lure in hungry people who will part with their money in hopes of a dream. The site suggests that by paying $395 you can apply for the conference, and shortly after receiving the money, the regional director (located in Benin) will send you everything you need to gain a visa, plane ticket, lodging and entrance to Canada. I know my sweet brother isn't remotely interested in public health, AIDS prevention or other causes humanitaire (he's got only soccer on the brain) but he is clinging to the hope that flying off to another country will be, not only possible, but the answer to his drifting life.

Another source of endless frustration for me, trying to guide and counsel him into making decisions that will lead somewhere. I guess this is not so different from what many parents go through as their teenagers turn into young adults and begin to make their way in the world. Except in this case, choices are severely limited. And it's not really about following your heart's desire, but about finding something you can do that will bring in some money and may be pleasurable too.

Ousmane hasn't really arrived at that point yet. He is young, single and dreaming of professional soccer.     But it does remind me of my own youth, working in a restaurant and feeling frustrated at my inability to arrive at the life of my dreams. I had asked one of the dishwasher/general cleaners (who eventually worked his way up to line cook and occasional daytime head chef) if he was happy with his job. I have never forgotten his quizzical look. Happy? As if such an emotion could be all tangled up in the pursuit of supporting his family- which he did. Our restaurant legend had it that he and his older brother had walked from El Salvador and somehow ended up in our northern New York bistro. He might have been all of 15 at the time I knew him and he was certainly proud of every moment he worked. Yes, he finally said, he was happy to have a job even if it was in a country he didn't know, a language he didn't speak and hours that never seemed to end. It allowed him the chance to send money home and be a provider for his mother. That's the part that made him happy, nothing to do really with washing the dishes or cleaning up tables.

And so I feel I have seen all sides of the immigrant dream. Those who aspire to flee their home country and work tirelessly to provide for their family back home, those who find themselves by happenstance in a new place, decide to stay and make a meager go of it and those who never really arrive at finding the dream ( who then find themselves "stuck" unable to admit defeat to their friends and family back home and unable to move forward in their new lives.) BBC has an entire series devoted to the subject.

None of it is helpful to Ousmane, who most often laughs when I try to explain the realities. He doesn't believe me at all and wants only to experience for himself the wider world. None of it is helpful to my friend, who truly does want to stay in his country but only hoped to travel a bit, experience the best Miami has to offer in salsa dancing, and return all the more enriched and in love with his culture (which seems heavily infused with Latin rhythms, movements and fashions. Not sure how that all managed to get over here via Belgium, but there definitely seems to be a sister element linking Kinshasa with Latin America.)

For now, we're all staying put- having been denied in one form or another our right to freedom of travel.