I should have known by the rambling, wordy, preachy tone of my last post that I was getting ill. The mental clarity is always first to go. I had wanted to write a simple post about a short ride. Instead of just appreciating the man in my life for qualities I love- his sensitivity to others, his willingness to go out of his way and do the unexpected- I ended up getting swept away by the frustration of the entire situation of street kids in Kinshasa. And my inability to actually do anything to change it.
I've been thinking about them the entire time I have been sick. Because the illness descended upon me the next day like a plague and as sick as I've been feeling, I am thankful to have a bed to crawl into. Clearly 2014 is not the year of health. I am doubly "blessed" to be living on campus and working in a school- both situations which make me highly susceptible to plagues. Living on campus means it is possible to go to work - despite being slightly ill- and return home all the while never really leaving 'home.' Its so much easier to trick your mind when getting to work only involves a 5 minute walk- though, admittedly, sometimes that walk can seem like miles.
Working in a school of course means being locked up with 26 kids and all their germs for 6-7 hours a day. Every day. It's always a bit scary to me to witness how fast the germs spread. Half of my class was wiped out for a week. And then it was my turn. As I struggle to get back to feeling 100% (I'd settle for 75% at this point) I watch my colleagues all fall, one by one taking their turns. If it were yellow fever or something deadly, well, our story could easily turn into the next blockbuster disaster film.
I wonder why getting sick has seemed so much more intense over here in Africa than anytime I've been in the US. I've tried to think back accurately- not with the cloudy haze of time and memory influencing- and I feel pretty certain that my illnesses here hurt more, last longer and feel closer to actual death than anything I've experienced in the US. Here are a few of my nonscientific thoughts on why:
1. Bigger, badder bugs- simply put, this tropical climate is the perfect breeding ground for the biggest, baddest germs. The hot, moist air is just what those invisible guys need to grow to their biggest unseeable selves. Just when you think you've gotten them beat, you step outside into that thick humid air and they get a second wind, springing back into life and kicking your butt again.
2. Small, stingy vegetables- Maybe this one only relates to Kinshasa, but I am convinced the small vegetables that look as though they clawed their way out of the ground, survivors of some weird vegetable holocaust provide such little vitamin content that most of us are walking around in a nutritionally depleted state to begin with. The germy bad guys move right in with ease since our vitamin armies aren't up to the task of taking them on. Of course, nuclear vegetables should be able to put up a good fight. I'm probably just buying in the wrong places. Surely there are healthier places to get vegetables, like the cemetery.
3. Everything in Africa is more intense- just to remind you how precious life is. Most of the things about daily life in Africa have more to them. (And remember, it's ok for me to be completely biased because my disclaimer clearly mentions a nonscientific study.) People don't just go to the store- they dress up in their finest cloth with mesmerizing patterns and bright, bold colors and parade through the aisles with a regal air. Kids aren't just cute and adorable here- they have huge, deep eyes that seem to be able to look into the depths of your soul and smiles the wattage of sun rays. They dance and sing and move through their day with agility and fierce joy even if they happen to be lugging gallons of water or carrying a smaller sibling off to get candy at the corner store.
The streets don't just hum with commuters, they sing and sway with the greetings of neighbors. Sometimes they break out in pushing, yelling fights. They laugh and cajole and suck their teeth in disbelief- look at those two fighting...tch tch tch. Cars don't just roll down the streets at quitting time- they belch and burp and cough out fumes. They squeak and rattle and wheeze, and every so often, they explode like gunfire.
No one just hops in a taxi- first there is the seduction of the serenade - the singer of destinations. Next you are swallowed into a crowd of strangers, possibly entering a shoving match with a mama or a papa and then you must throw yourself into the already moving car, slamming the door just before a motorcycle comes whizzing along the side nearly taking your arm and half the door off with it.
Once sealed inside the small steel oven, traffic coasts to a standstill. It doesn't just get backed up- it tangles and weaves and takes up three lanes on the wrong side of the street. It flows over onto the sidewalk- drivers honk and bang on rooftops, they squeeze through narrow openings, cut off oncoming traffic and idle in fast anger going nowhere. More small fights brew, further stalling progress, more commentary is shared on the deplorable state of the state, papers become fans while pocket tissues are bought from sidewalk sellers to wipe the streams of sweat and taximotos zoom in all directions using every inch of available space. Pedestrians jump from hood to hood of motionless cars in an effort to cross the crowded streets. Heads lean back and naps are taken. Stomachs growl.
Food to go isn't just sold from sterile stalls along the roadside packed in Styrofoam containers and plastic bags - goats are whacked and hacked in front of you while their little cousins bleat nearby nibbling on stray cardboard and patches of grass awaiting death. You get to pick out the exact part of the carcass you'd like roasted before your very eyes while beers are served and bottle tops are unhinged with bare teeth. Little packets of meat are wrapped in brown paper served with fermented flour in a banana leaf and handed over like French cuisine.
With this kind of excitement, why would anyone expect to just get a little cold and get over it? No, you get exploding headaches and all over muscle soreness. There are mists of nausea and waves of dizziness. Your body fluctuates between hot and cold. Doctors everywhere want to offer you the quinine drip which results in ear ringing and vague staticky radio sounds. Coughs dig deep into the lungs and those little germy guys build whole cities down there. And if you want a bowl of soup to comfort you, you need to get up and start chopping vegetables.
I miss comfort food most when I am sick here. I dream of soup from a can and would happily consume all that extra sodium and brave the risks of eating food laced with BPAs. I miss Tylenol in a liquid form for the boys- though this past bout with the mystery plague and side dish of fever has me actually impressed with Doliprene and it's amazing all over fever and pain reducing effects. I didn't take it myself, but the transformation in Mohamed was stunning. I guess the medicines have their intensity value as well. Everything is more.
For me? Well, after 4 days I finally started chopping vegetables. I came up with a soup even Healthy Choice doesn't offer I think- potato-onion- noodle- corn- spinach- eggplant- thyme and extra garlic. Despite the random ingredients, it held true to that northeastern soup taste I was hoping for. A little comfort to get me though this last plague before heading out of Kinshasa forever, as the kids say.
28.5.14
23.5.14
A ride to remember
Lost in the end of year report card muddle as I am means I am drowning in data. I am analyzing data, comparing data, searching for norms and presenting findings as close to truth as I can arrive at. Little snapshots of where students are functioning today based on where they were yesterday and on what seems normal compared to hundreds of other students who may have a little or a lot in common with whichever student I happen to be reducing to a series of skills and character traits relevant to this time only. The world of report cards.
But also the world of Kinshasa. And in Kinshasa, determining normal can take some effort. Finding the middle ground is never very easy as one is exposed to a series of extremes that eventually make every adventure seem normal and the mundane seem downright exotic. It is a land where all stories take on mythic proportions and hover in the realm of legends as no truth can ever be denied or validated. Stories become a jumble of real life experience woven together with bits of imagination based on cultural or linguistic misunderstandings. So much color and vitality gets added with translation- from Lingala to French and French to English; from Congolese to European and European to American (and really, Europe is not a country and so comes complete with a million nuances in how a tale might be interpreted yet again...) Each transformation adds another layer and with each layer the absolute truth gets buried deeper revealing only a more basic, universal truth about human nature.
One of my favorite stories is about a former student, though the details were shared with me by his personal tutor. His previous job was unclear though he had initially been hired by a US Embassy employee as a chauffeur. It turns out he wasn't quite competent at that position but was well liked and so the woman created some other job to keep him around. And it was in this role that he found himself accompanying her along a ride down the streets of Kinshasa. The details get fuzzy here, but supposedly she stopped a gang of street kids (or more likely, they stopped her) and somehow an offer of dinner was presented. Only one agreed- one was brave enough to hop in the car, head off to an unknown destination and eat food from a stranger (the plethora of rules and suspicions surrounding food from strangers and neighbors alike could be the subject of an entire blog itself.)
This chance encounter led the woman to finding out more about his family (apparently he had uncles in other parts of the country which she was eventually able to contact) and arranging, with their permission, to adopt him. This teenage boy. Who now lives with her in the US. A life changing, fairy tale-ish, mythical sounding, legend-like story no matter how you approach it. I mean, who does that? Invite street kids home for dinner? Who gets in cars with strangers offering only the promise of a hot meal? And who adopts a 12 year old kid they happened to run into on the streets of Kinshasa? Both their lives were changed. Remarkably. Forever.
So, if your comparing my story to that story, it's hardly so breathtaking. It's hardly remarkable. But I still found myself feeling in awe, counting the ways I love someone, recognizing with gratitude that I am lucky to have certain people in my life. People who think like me. Our story is not that story, not that remarkable one but just this ordinary one. On a quiet May day. May 17th, in fact, a holiday in Kinshasa.
Nothing clears out the capital like a jours fériés, a public holiday when all businesses and most stores are closed. The boulevard is empty and even the street corners are devoid of the masses that can normally be seen waiting for transportation throughout the day. Its hard to imagine where 9 million people can disappear to, but public holidays inspire a certain kind of magic.
This May 17th also happened to be a Saturday and so my boys were flooded with social engagements that required a bit of chauffeuring around town, which is how I came to witness the eerie calm for myself. I'd been watching a student dance rehearsal at a local school when I realized it was time to pick up Nabih. Happily this coincided with the end of rehearsals and so Christian offered to help me locate the exact spot of the birthday party- somewhere just off the end of the boulevard.
It was about 4 o'clock and the streets were beginning to show small signs of life, people emerging to celebrate the holiday with a beer at their favorite night spot (or early evening spot, as the case may be.) Traffic was mostly non existent and we were able to make our way downtown undeterred. Well, to a certain point. A few street kids appeared at one stop light- they really know us both by now and whether we are in a school car or Christian's car it's no use- they see us a mile away, stop to say hello, to ask for money, or to offer insults or compliments depending upon the mood of the day. Christian told them we were on our way to the Gare Central and maybe on the way back, if we found something, we'd pass it along. I looked at him incredulously.
I know by now this is the only way to refuse. Simply saying no only invites more insistent pleas for something- money, water, a piece of candy- anything to acknowledge they are there, you see them and they exist. But really, we'd jumped in the car kind of impulsively and I hadn't brought my bag along. We had no phones, no francs and no little treats. Nothing. And we weren't going to find anything at the end of the boulevard either. We would be driving back as empty handed as we were now.
Sure enough on the way back, as we stopped at a light, the gang of kids came swooping upon us. While we chatted, they multiplied. There must have been a good fifteen or twenty of them, all ages from 15 to 6, hanging on the metal divider between the road with nothing to look forward to on this jours fériés with it's empty streets and naked sidewalks. I capture enough of the conversation to hear Christian promising them $5 as long as they share it altogether. And someone had to come with us. Because, of course, we were still empty handed and lint pocketed.
I shake my head at his feeble nature. He finds it so hard to say no. The sheer numbers of those kids would have conjured resolute denial for me. There is no way I could have handed out enough francs to satisfy everyone and maintain calm and order. Sometimes handing out francs seems like exactly the wrong thing to do. It feels frustrating and useless. It feels condescending and power trippy- feeding into images of the foreign savior when really it's more like tossing pennies into a wishing fountain and expecting miracles. What I really want is a way to end the dilemma. I want everything to become a simple problem with an easy to identify solution and see it fixed. Right now. Sometimes driving down a Kinshasa street can be so emotionally exhausting.
But Christian never lets these things overwhelm him. He doesn't get bogged down with long term solutions or wage useless inner battles with himself over ultimate right and wrongs. He simply does what he can. In the moment. And right then, he could offer to take a kid for a short ride and give him $5 to share with his friends and maybe buy a few moments of happiness, or relief, or at least enough baguettes to go around. He used the time in the car to offer his version of ministering the good word- not necessarily religious conversion but moral and ethical decision making. Christian's take on how to be a better person and get along with those around you- look out for the little kids, essentially. I'm loving everything about his gentle spirit as we continue down the boulevard.
And then we stop at another light. I consider this "my" spot since I tend to see these kids more often. The first group we encountered was much further downtown and so they aren't as familiar to me. Christian "knows" them better than I do, if our brief encounters can really be considered knowing someone. But it is a lot harder to refuse the more familiar faces. As this group begins to crowd around the car, I notice our friend in the back hitting the button to slowly roll up the window. He slouches a bit in the seat and makes sure the door is locked. Turns out, it's a rival gang. Apparently one of the boys in this group assaulted our passenger sometime the week before.
As I track the conversation, again in Lingala, my understanding comes and goes. I begin to shake my head. Seriously? We're taking another one with us? I imagine a fight breaking out in the back seat. Taking one kid back to the school for a bit of cash is a good deed....but taking two? Is there a limit? Had he crossed the threshold from funny little story to legend in the making? Not quite. I guess.
But who does that? Who feels so touched by the helpless situation of these boys on the street that they invite them into the car for a ride down the road because they left home without their wallet? I guess the better question is who doesn't do that? Or why doesn't everyone do that? Not that throwing money at the situation will help in the least to solve it, but that the emotional burden and sense of responsibility is there to such a degree nothing is too much, no action is too far out of the way or inconvenient or absurd- especially when it's all essentially too little to begin with.
So we found ourselves riding down the road with two rival gang members tucked neatly in behind us- although, the boy who elected to go with us from the second group was not actually the one who did the assaulting. They were both getting the good word from Christian about how to get along, how to look out for each other and not be overcome by their circumstances. I am not sure what kind of ears these words of advice fell on, but the boys remained quiet and respectful.
We arrived at the school and Christian asked them to wait outside on a bench in front of the gates. The security guard was ready to shoo them away until he received assurances the boys were with Christian. He drove inside, recovered his bits of cash and presented them each with the promised treasure- along with more words of encouragement I am sure. A little drop in the bucket. They disappeared into the road again until next time.
And I was left with something of a story and a reminder to be grateful- not just about what I have, as in the material things, but about who I have in my life. Someone like me. Someone who gets overwhelmed by the wrongs of the world and is just trying to figure out how to make it seem right. Even if it's only for a minute- this time. Maybe next time it will be for longer. Maybe together, we'll find a way to make something lasting, even if it's small- this time. And maybe after that we'll find a way to make it bigger, or someone else will find a way. Story after story will build until it's nothing but normal tales of little rides and big emotions and the whole thing is rather boring after all. All the rides leave nothing to remember but ordinary intersections full of people waiting for transportation, on their way home to houses full of children and none on the street corners.
But also the world of Kinshasa. And in Kinshasa, determining normal can take some effort. Finding the middle ground is never very easy as one is exposed to a series of extremes that eventually make every adventure seem normal and the mundane seem downright exotic. It is a land where all stories take on mythic proportions and hover in the realm of legends as no truth can ever be denied or validated. Stories become a jumble of real life experience woven together with bits of imagination based on cultural or linguistic misunderstandings. So much color and vitality gets added with translation- from Lingala to French and French to English; from Congolese to European and European to American (and really, Europe is not a country and so comes complete with a million nuances in how a tale might be interpreted yet again...) Each transformation adds another layer and with each layer the absolute truth gets buried deeper revealing only a more basic, universal truth about human nature.
One of my favorite stories is about a former student, though the details were shared with me by his personal tutor. His previous job was unclear though he had initially been hired by a US Embassy employee as a chauffeur. It turns out he wasn't quite competent at that position but was well liked and so the woman created some other job to keep him around. And it was in this role that he found himself accompanying her along a ride down the streets of Kinshasa. The details get fuzzy here, but supposedly she stopped a gang of street kids (or more likely, they stopped her) and somehow an offer of dinner was presented. Only one agreed- one was brave enough to hop in the car, head off to an unknown destination and eat food from a stranger (the plethora of rules and suspicions surrounding food from strangers and neighbors alike could be the subject of an entire blog itself.)
This chance encounter led the woman to finding out more about his family (apparently he had uncles in other parts of the country which she was eventually able to contact) and arranging, with their permission, to adopt him. This teenage boy. Who now lives with her in the US. A life changing, fairy tale-ish, mythical sounding, legend-like story no matter how you approach it. I mean, who does that? Invite street kids home for dinner? Who gets in cars with strangers offering only the promise of a hot meal? And who adopts a 12 year old kid they happened to run into on the streets of Kinshasa? Both their lives were changed. Remarkably. Forever.
So, if your comparing my story to that story, it's hardly so breathtaking. It's hardly remarkable. But I still found myself feeling in awe, counting the ways I love someone, recognizing with gratitude that I am lucky to have certain people in my life. People who think like me. Our story is not that story, not that remarkable one but just this ordinary one. On a quiet May day. May 17th, in fact, a holiday in Kinshasa.
Nothing clears out the capital like a jours fériés, a public holiday when all businesses and most stores are closed. The boulevard is empty and even the street corners are devoid of the masses that can normally be seen waiting for transportation throughout the day. Its hard to imagine where 9 million people can disappear to, but public holidays inspire a certain kind of magic.
This May 17th also happened to be a Saturday and so my boys were flooded with social engagements that required a bit of chauffeuring around town, which is how I came to witness the eerie calm for myself. I'd been watching a student dance rehearsal at a local school when I realized it was time to pick up Nabih. Happily this coincided with the end of rehearsals and so Christian offered to help me locate the exact spot of the birthday party- somewhere just off the end of the boulevard.
It was about 4 o'clock and the streets were beginning to show small signs of life, people emerging to celebrate the holiday with a beer at their favorite night spot (or early evening spot, as the case may be.) Traffic was mostly non existent and we were able to make our way downtown undeterred. Well, to a certain point. A few street kids appeared at one stop light- they really know us both by now and whether we are in a school car or Christian's car it's no use- they see us a mile away, stop to say hello, to ask for money, or to offer insults or compliments depending upon the mood of the day. Christian told them we were on our way to the Gare Central and maybe on the way back, if we found something, we'd pass it along. I looked at him incredulously.
I know by now this is the only way to refuse. Simply saying no only invites more insistent pleas for something- money, water, a piece of candy- anything to acknowledge they are there, you see them and they exist. But really, we'd jumped in the car kind of impulsively and I hadn't brought my bag along. We had no phones, no francs and no little treats. Nothing. And we weren't going to find anything at the end of the boulevard either. We would be driving back as empty handed as we were now.
Sure enough on the way back, as we stopped at a light, the gang of kids came swooping upon us. While we chatted, they multiplied. There must have been a good fifteen or twenty of them, all ages from 15 to 6, hanging on the metal divider between the road with nothing to look forward to on this jours fériés with it's empty streets and naked sidewalks. I capture enough of the conversation to hear Christian promising them $5 as long as they share it altogether. And someone had to come with us. Because, of course, we were still empty handed and lint pocketed.
I shake my head at his feeble nature. He finds it so hard to say no. The sheer numbers of those kids would have conjured resolute denial for me. There is no way I could have handed out enough francs to satisfy everyone and maintain calm and order. Sometimes handing out francs seems like exactly the wrong thing to do. It feels frustrating and useless. It feels condescending and power trippy- feeding into images of the foreign savior when really it's more like tossing pennies into a wishing fountain and expecting miracles. What I really want is a way to end the dilemma. I want everything to become a simple problem with an easy to identify solution and see it fixed. Right now. Sometimes driving down a Kinshasa street can be so emotionally exhausting.
But Christian never lets these things overwhelm him. He doesn't get bogged down with long term solutions or wage useless inner battles with himself over ultimate right and wrongs. He simply does what he can. In the moment. And right then, he could offer to take a kid for a short ride and give him $5 to share with his friends and maybe buy a few moments of happiness, or relief, or at least enough baguettes to go around. He used the time in the car to offer his version of ministering the good word- not necessarily religious conversion but moral and ethical decision making. Christian's take on how to be a better person and get along with those around you- look out for the little kids, essentially. I'm loving everything about his gentle spirit as we continue down the boulevard.
And then we stop at another light. I consider this "my" spot since I tend to see these kids more often. The first group we encountered was much further downtown and so they aren't as familiar to me. Christian "knows" them better than I do, if our brief encounters can really be considered knowing someone. But it is a lot harder to refuse the more familiar faces. As this group begins to crowd around the car, I notice our friend in the back hitting the button to slowly roll up the window. He slouches a bit in the seat and makes sure the door is locked. Turns out, it's a rival gang. Apparently one of the boys in this group assaulted our passenger sometime the week before.
As I track the conversation, again in Lingala, my understanding comes and goes. I begin to shake my head. Seriously? We're taking another one with us? I imagine a fight breaking out in the back seat. Taking one kid back to the school for a bit of cash is a good deed....but taking two? Is there a limit? Had he crossed the threshold from funny little story to legend in the making? Not quite. I guess.
But who does that? Who feels so touched by the helpless situation of these boys on the street that they invite them into the car for a ride down the road because they left home without their wallet? I guess the better question is who doesn't do that? Or why doesn't everyone do that? Not that throwing money at the situation will help in the least to solve it, but that the emotional burden and sense of responsibility is there to such a degree nothing is too much, no action is too far out of the way or inconvenient or absurd- especially when it's all essentially too little to begin with.
So we found ourselves riding down the road with two rival gang members tucked neatly in behind us- although, the boy who elected to go with us from the second group was not actually the one who did the assaulting. They were both getting the good word from Christian about how to get along, how to look out for each other and not be overcome by their circumstances. I am not sure what kind of ears these words of advice fell on, but the boys remained quiet and respectful.
We arrived at the school and Christian asked them to wait outside on a bench in front of the gates. The security guard was ready to shoo them away until he received assurances the boys were with Christian. He drove inside, recovered his bits of cash and presented them each with the promised treasure- along with more words of encouragement I am sure. A little drop in the bucket. They disappeared into the road again until next time.
And I was left with something of a story and a reminder to be grateful- not just about what I have, as in the material things, but about who I have in my life. Someone like me. Someone who gets overwhelmed by the wrongs of the world and is just trying to figure out how to make it seem right. Even if it's only for a minute- this time. Maybe next time it will be for longer. Maybe together, we'll find a way to make something lasting, even if it's small- this time. And maybe after that we'll find a way to make it bigger, or someone else will find a way. Story after story will build until it's nothing but normal tales of little rides and big emotions and the whole thing is rather boring after all. All the rides leave nothing to remember but ordinary intersections full of people waiting for transportation, on their way home to houses full of children and none on the street corners.
22.5.14
Feeling Grown Up
I am aware that another post about chocolate could very well mean that it threatens to overtake popularity as a frequent topic on my blog- ousting traffic stories and doctor visits (well, how do you think one survives traffic and doctor experiences in Congo if not with good chocolate, really?) But this one is important- though not necessarily my favorite. Cuddling your chocolate promises to be my favorite expression for the next 10 years or so at least.
I have had a life long relationship with chocolate that I am very aware of. I remember the details about it in a way few other foods or pleasures evoke. As an adolescent, fearing myself fat and ugly, I swore off chocolate and pretended to hate it. I consumed it only in secret and was even ashamed to buy it - certain that the cashiers would be thinking to themselves- there, you see why she is so fat and ugly? It's because she eats all that chocolate. While not the prettiest child, I never was fat but merely a victim of media influence and low self-esteem. If only I had known about the healing powers of chocolate. NPR and a bunch of nurses can't be wrong.
My connection to chocolate has since changed dramatically. I have developed a taste for the dark, bitter, pure form of chocolate (the kind that is actually good for you as opposed to the candy bar kind that just adds calories and sugar to the diet.) Yes, I have become something of a chocolate connoisseur - a sure sign of being grown-up and a necessity in Congo, where bad chocolate can be found by the multitude and good chocolate costs a hefty 3-5,000 franc. If I am going to spend $5 on a chocolate bar, it better be good- and good for me.
The most important, and secretly delicious, thing that has changed in my relationship with chocolate is the pace at which I consume it. I can actually eat a few squares and then save the rest for the next day. I have such vivid memories of asking my mom (queen hoarder of treats and personal yummies) if she was going to eat that and wondering if she really wanted it why didn't she just eat it now?
There are few moments in life when I feel like a bona fide grown up. Having a job and going to work every day isn't all that much different than when I was younger (and I am a teacher- sooooo, I'm still going to the same place, still learning, still reading and writing every day.) Having a house just means I keep cleaning and cooking- things I've been doing since I was 10 at least. And children? Well, I've always been around children, taking care of them, playing with them, learning from them. None of these things have made me feel much like I've crossed the line from youth to maturity.
Being able to save a candy bar for the next day? Bingo. Now I know I'm an adult. But, ever looking for deeper meaning as I do, I understand the real reason behind my new found restraint. Patience. Growing older has allowed my to cultivate my ability to have patience, to savor life's moments and truly process them without giving in to reckless emotion. I don't need to devour my chocolate in 3 bites but have discovered it tastes better, in fact, when I draw out the pleasure, take small nibbles and truly enjoy each moment with my treat.
I used to think giving in to emotion was where passion stemmed from and that losing that would mean the death of dreams. Oh, my youth. I am beginning to understand- and it's just an inkling mind you, because I am aware there are many out there who will regard my numeric age with a mirthful grin and call me a 'young'un' - but I am beginning to understand the connection between passion and patience and what it truly means to patience.
Taking time to let remarks settle and find the best way to respond- or perhaps not to respond at all. Understanding when it is possible to reveal deep emotions in an effort to strengthen a relationship and when it is better to simply move forward accepting the relationship at the level it's on. Determining when it is possible to forgive and if not, how to forge a new path that doesn't bring hurt or shame to either party. Maturity is more than an age, but having practice and experience certainly helps. Because patience isn't easy to come by. Not the kind of patience that leads to serenity of being. Nor the kind of patience that allows one to focus on gratefulness and let go of the need to be in control. The patience that leads to passion needs time to ruminate and develop. I'm definitely getting there. And saving my chocolate is as good a first step as any.
I have had a life long relationship with chocolate that I am very aware of. I remember the details about it in a way few other foods or pleasures evoke. As an adolescent, fearing myself fat and ugly, I swore off chocolate and pretended to hate it. I consumed it only in secret and was even ashamed to buy it - certain that the cashiers would be thinking to themselves- there, you see why she is so fat and ugly? It's because she eats all that chocolate. While not the prettiest child, I never was fat but merely a victim of media influence and low self-esteem. If only I had known about the healing powers of chocolate. NPR and a bunch of nurses can't be wrong.
My connection to chocolate has since changed dramatically. I have developed a taste for the dark, bitter, pure form of chocolate (the kind that is actually good for you as opposed to the candy bar kind that just adds calories and sugar to the diet.) Yes, I have become something of a chocolate connoisseur - a sure sign of being grown-up and a necessity in Congo, where bad chocolate can be found by the multitude and good chocolate costs a hefty 3-5,000 franc. If I am going to spend $5 on a chocolate bar, it better be good- and good for me.
The most important, and secretly delicious, thing that has changed in my relationship with chocolate is the pace at which I consume it. I can actually eat a few squares and then save the rest for the next day. I have such vivid memories of asking my mom (queen hoarder of treats and personal yummies) if she was going to eat that and wondering if she really wanted it why didn't she just eat it now?
There are few moments in life when I feel like a bona fide grown up. Having a job and going to work every day isn't all that much different than when I was younger (and I am a teacher- sooooo, I'm still going to the same place, still learning, still reading and writing every day.) Having a house just means I keep cleaning and cooking- things I've been doing since I was 10 at least. And children? Well, I've always been around children, taking care of them, playing with them, learning from them. None of these things have made me feel much like I've crossed the line from youth to maturity.
Being able to save a candy bar for the next day? Bingo. Now I know I'm an adult. But, ever looking for deeper meaning as I do, I understand the real reason behind my new found restraint. Patience. Growing older has allowed my to cultivate my ability to have patience, to savor life's moments and truly process them without giving in to reckless emotion. I don't need to devour my chocolate in 3 bites but have discovered it tastes better, in fact, when I draw out the pleasure, take small nibbles and truly enjoy each moment with my treat.
I used to think giving in to emotion was where passion stemmed from and that losing that would mean the death of dreams. Oh, my youth. I am beginning to understand- and it's just an inkling mind you, because I am aware there are many out there who will regard my numeric age with a mirthful grin and call me a 'young'un' - but I am beginning to understand the connection between passion and patience and what it truly means to patience.
Taking time to let remarks settle and find the best way to respond- or perhaps not to respond at all. Understanding when it is possible to reveal deep emotions in an effort to strengthen a relationship and when it is better to simply move forward accepting the relationship at the level it's on. Determining when it is possible to forgive and if not, how to forge a new path that doesn't bring hurt or shame to either party. Maturity is more than an age, but having practice and experience certainly helps. Because patience isn't easy to come by. Not the kind of patience that leads to serenity of being. Nor the kind of patience that allows one to focus on gratefulness and let go of the need to be in control. The patience that leads to passion needs time to ruminate and develop. I'm definitely getting there. And saving my chocolate is as good a first step as any.
18.5.14
Mask of the Colonels
Anyone living in a big city knows the dangers are constant. Anyone living in Kinshasa knows exactly what to worry about, which places in the city require extra vigilance and which places are probably best to avoid and when. And of course there are the everyplace worries about car accidents. I think car accidents are the number one cause of death in African cities. If not number one- very high on the list. Drivers are crazy- self-centered and full of the intoxication that comes with suddenly being able to travel faster than the speed of a pedestrian (when not stalled in the tangled threads of traffic created by aforementioned intoxication that is.)
In light of the recent fight across the river, a new concern has popped up on the radar. Not for me but for my guy from Brazza. He's been working at a local school here in Kin for the past 7 or 8 years and people know him well. He's got a solid reputation around town and everyone from high ranking generals to affluent ex-pats call him for dance lessons, wedding preparations or special events. He knows how to light up a dance floor and he's magic with his students. Which inevitably brings a bit of jealousy from those on the fringe.
He's had endless difficulty with the security at the school despite his every effort to create a genial atmosphere (and constant gift giving of shoes, hats and francs.) After a break-in last year, the school turned to police security and that's when most of the confrontations began. However, despite a few dramatic escalations, its always been something he's worked around (installing one of his dancers at the gate to open for students so the police aren't bothered with this menial chore- that happens to actually be their job...) or muddled through (ignoring comments, glances or other affronts in an effort to make his students feel welcome and create a tension free atmosphere.)
Since the Kin-Brazza conflict however, things have reached a new level. Several times last week the comments weren't so harmless and the insults weren't restricted to just a few but instead spread to an angry mob. Chauffeurs and security personnel were caught up together in a band of ethnic hatred. Christian became a target for all the perceived wrongs of his government and countrymen. Threats of violence and death were hurled and repeated with increasing detail. They promised to invite the kaluna and suggested any dark night they could be waiting in the shadows after a class.
It's hard to know when threats are idle or should be taken seriously. I'd hoped to have a conversation about this with him to try and figure out how the next few weeks should go. Did we really have something to worry about or were they just shooting off steam? News stories flashed through my mind and I sensed with horror the ease in which a mob mentality could overrule any personal connections or logical thought an individual might have. Mobs are scary, powerful things. And kaluna need very little to ignite their raging hostilities that simmer constantly just beneath the surface. They harbor a volatile sense of injustice and are ready to act on it for any cause, real or imagined. And a few well placed francs goes a long way.
Before I could gather details and get what I'd hoped was an accurate perception of the danger, I found myself seated at an outdoor table greeting a colonel and his group of military men. The colonel made a point of not getting up when I reached over to shake his hand, a sign of his apparent importance. He was interested in purchasing Christian's car and this meeting was intended to secure the details and arrange a final selling date (which has since come and gone.) While the men waited for cold beers to presented, they engaged in small talk and eventually things got around to the situation at the school.
I felt a small ray of hope to hear these men recognizing that the world of politics should not play out in the hands of the masses- citizens are not their government policies- but that idea was quickly followed with recognition of the general ignorance of the population and the willingness of certain groups of people to get caught up in these kinds of affairs as an excuse for aggression and violence. In short, the colonel advised Christian to stay home. At least for the night classes. No need to risk it. Hearing a colonel suggest retreat kind of put things in a different light. Perhaps it was wise to take the situation seriously. At least for the next few days. After all, the first confrontation had resulted in being accosted by the police and taken as far the 'beach' where the ferry leaves port for Brazza. It would have taken mere minutes to be thrown on a boat or tossed in the river- never to be heard from again. Luckily, he is a gifted talker and somehow managed to get out of that situation. But there's no counting on luck.
Eventually the beers were presented, though warm and were since rejected (wait...what?! rejected beers in Kinshasa??? preposterous! I have never heard of or seen this before- and it is only just now in the writing that little puzzle pieces of suspicion are beginning to fall into place. No beers, no follow through on the deal, hmmmm. Could all those words about the error of politics being played out by the masses have been a polite but insincere front? A mask of the colonels? This is how the seeds of doubt and hatred get spread and continue to grow- in the fertile grounds of suspicion and incomprehension.The ease in which the emotions and sentiments of man can be manipulated is alarming.)
Things do seem to have calmed a bit since then. For caution's sake he had his dancers teach one night class but has since returned to his regular schedule. The lull of routine taking over as the persistence of fear is not one that can be continually sustained.
A residue remains however, that feeling of being trapped in your own skin- proud of who you are but powerless against those who harbor hate for no other reason than the very skin you inhabit. It's the story of human societies in countries all over the world- this flame of hatred both powerful and senseless- based on little more than the chance of birth.
UPDATE: Christian says there are plenty of people in Kin who would refuse a warm beer- including himself. See how easy it is to spread misinformation and undeserved suspicion...?
In light of the recent fight across the river, a new concern has popped up on the radar. Not for me but for my guy from Brazza. He's been working at a local school here in Kin for the past 7 or 8 years and people know him well. He's got a solid reputation around town and everyone from high ranking generals to affluent ex-pats call him for dance lessons, wedding preparations or special events. He knows how to light up a dance floor and he's magic with his students. Which inevitably brings a bit of jealousy from those on the fringe.
He's had endless difficulty with the security at the school despite his every effort to create a genial atmosphere (and constant gift giving of shoes, hats and francs.) After a break-in last year, the school turned to police security and that's when most of the confrontations began. However, despite a few dramatic escalations, its always been something he's worked around (installing one of his dancers at the gate to open for students so the police aren't bothered with this menial chore- that happens to actually be their job...) or muddled through (ignoring comments, glances or other affronts in an effort to make his students feel welcome and create a tension free atmosphere.)
Since the Kin-Brazza conflict however, things have reached a new level. Several times last week the comments weren't so harmless and the insults weren't restricted to just a few but instead spread to an angry mob. Chauffeurs and security personnel were caught up together in a band of ethnic hatred. Christian became a target for all the perceived wrongs of his government and countrymen. Threats of violence and death were hurled and repeated with increasing detail. They promised to invite the kaluna and suggested any dark night they could be waiting in the shadows after a class.
It's hard to know when threats are idle or should be taken seriously. I'd hoped to have a conversation about this with him to try and figure out how the next few weeks should go. Did we really have something to worry about or were they just shooting off steam? News stories flashed through my mind and I sensed with horror the ease in which a mob mentality could overrule any personal connections or logical thought an individual might have. Mobs are scary, powerful things. And kaluna need very little to ignite their raging hostilities that simmer constantly just beneath the surface. They harbor a volatile sense of injustice and are ready to act on it for any cause, real or imagined. And a few well placed francs goes a long way.
Before I could gather details and get what I'd hoped was an accurate perception of the danger, I found myself seated at an outdoor table greeting a colonel and his group of military men. The colonel made a point of not getting up when I reached over to shake his hand, a sign of his apparent importance. He was interested in purchasing Christian's car and this meeting was intended to secure the details and arrange a final selling date (which has since come and gone.) While the men waited for cold beers to presented, they engaged in small talk and eventually things got around to the situation at the school.
I felt a small ray of hope to hear these men recognizing that the world of politics should not play out in the hands of the masses- citizens are not their government policies- but that idea was quickly followed with recognition of the general ignorance of the population and the willingness of certain groups of people to get caught up in these kinds of affairs as an excuse for aggression and violence. In short, the colonel advised Christian to stay home. At least for the night classes. No need to risk it. Hearing a colonel suggest retreat kind of put things in a different light. Perhaps it was wise to take the situation seriously. At least for the next few days. After all, the first confrontation had resulted in being accosted by the police and taken as far the 'beach' where the ferry leaves port for Brazza. It would have taken mere minutes to be thrown on a boat or tossed in the river- never to be heard from again. Luckily, he is a gifted talker and somehow managed to get out of that situation. But there's no counting on luck.
Eventually the beers were presented, though warm and were since rejected (wait...what?! rejected beers in Kinshasa??? preposterous! I have never heard of or seen this before- and it is only just now in the writing that little puzzle pieces of suspicion are beginning to fall into place. No beers, no follow through on the deal, hmmmm. Could all those words about the error of politics being played out by the masses have been a polite but insincere front? A mask of the colonels? This is how the seeds of doubt and hatred get spread and continue to grow- in the fertile grounds of suspicion and incomprehension.The ease in which the emotions and sentiments of man can be manipulated is alarming.)
Things do seem to have calmed a bit since then. For caution's sake he had his dancers teach one night class but has since returned to his regular schedule. The lull of routine taking over as the persistence of fear is not one that can be continually sustained.
A residue remains however, that feeling of being trapped in your own skin- proud of who you are but powerless against those who harbor hate for no other reason than the very skin you inhabit. It's the story of human societies in countries all over the world- this flame of hatred both powerful and senseless- based on little more than the chance of birth.
UPDATE: Christian says there are plenty of people in Kin who would refuse a warm beer- including himself. See how easy it is to spread misinformation and undeserved suspicion...?
15.5.14
When the glove fits...
Blogging for the past 6 years has revealed certain facts about my character which I would not have otherwise known (or maybe it is living in Congo for the past 6 years that has brought forth these qualities which were previously lying dormant in the winter worlds of my personality...) Because they are now forever documented on the web (unless of course I request to have them removed- recent news here and an endlessly fascinating title here) I can easily link to proof of my obsession with medical/ illness stories and pharmaceutical remedies (completely refuting the fact that I have always claimed and previously thought myself to be a healthy individual with a nearly all natural life style- I'm sure I haven't even linked to all the previous posts describing our hospital and doctor experiences, but I am ready to pull the kid card and say whenever kids are involved, there are bound to be more doctor stories to tell.)
And so it is this time. Because along with my story telling, there is that aspect of faith changing. I constantly battle with myself about whether to believe in the medicine, the doctor, the whole process of invasion- or to just let time and nature take their healing course. I battle about treating symptoms as opposed to finding out the real cause and taking prescriptions as opposed to using herbs and teas and the medicinal properties of foods to do their job. A recent pharmacy find had left me feeling secretly delighted - a sore throat spray containing mint and clove oils reminiscent of an all natural, essential oil spray I had bought at my favorite supply store back when receiving mail items was still possible. Mohamed confirmed everything with his comment, "Tastes just like the old one," after an initial trial spray.
My inner battle began anew when Mohamed showed me his swollen finger- fat and unmovable 3 days after a nasty fall. While it didn't hurt, it was easy enough to take him in for a quick exam to be sure it wasn't fractured or broken. Since we are still in the luxurious position to have insurance, it seemed wise to take advantage of it. The exam left me feeling dubious- as it often does. The doctor poked and prodded, pulled and massaged. Mohamed winced and gasped and closed his eyes. Predictably, we were sent for x-rays.
One day and several hand scans later, we arrived back at the doctor's office. While Mohamed was supremely thrilled to have gotten a look at his bones, the x-rays showed no fracture and so we were still left with a swollen, impaired finger. While the doctor typed away on his desktop, I asked about the next step. What should we do now? He was ready with his prescription paper and pain medicine. "But, he doesn't really have any pain. That's not the problem. The problem is his finger has been swollen for 4 days and he can't move it." I pointed out the obvious. It surely seemed to me the doctor was making things up as we went along. And I feel I should apologize in advance for not having faith in his ability. He mentioned something about massage therapy in a few days if the swelling didn't begin to go down and wrote a prescription to help with this.
I am sincere when I say I have no idea where my immediate disdain and disbelief of all things medical was born, but sure enough, it rose up like a fierce protecting dragon once again. Fine, I thought, we'll take the medicine, but that doesn't mean I actually have to give it to him. I vowed to look it up and find out exactly what farcical thing they were trying to prescribe now. I wanted to know why the finger was swollen, not just how to remove the symptom.
Perhaps my rebellious nature stems from the fact that there seems to be a remedy for everything (despite popular American belief, I am sure the cure for the common cold exists and can readily be found in any African drugstore.) Language probably also contributes to my inability to believe in the validity of the medicines. With my basic French, and their basic understanding of biology, I often find myself in vague and concerning conversations with friends that include phrases like "my blood is dirty" or "my heart hurts" or the ever alarming, slightly vague but oft present, "I thought I would die." There's a medicine for that- for all of those in fact. "Cleaning the blood," "calming the heart" and "saving you from imminent death." It conjures up images of 1800's America to me-- the traveling salesmen with suitcases of snakeoil. And if none of those things work, there is always the nganga who can provide a natural healing alternative. However, if I have to go pharmaceutical, I want long, awkward prescriptions I can't pronounce and medical sounding diagnoses.
Consistent with my illogical and contradictory nature, I become immediately suspicious of those un-sayable cures and commence to googling the minute I am within range of connectivity. Imagine my surprise when I looked up Chymoral and found it is a medicine used for swelling in hand fractures. So specific. So exactly to the point. I admit to feeling a little bit of awe. The doctor never even appeared to be consulting a text or double checking anything. He just knew about this amazing hand fracture drug. I got to thinking about the million different ailments one could suffer from and the million different remedies that were out there- each fitting the other like a glove. Had he really committed all of this to memory?
Mohamed took a dose that night. In the morning, he surprised me at the kitchen sink by saying, "Look Ma, I have some improvement," as he bent his finger halfway. Maybe it was the medicine. Maybe it was just a natural improvement after 5 days of swelling. Most likely a combination of each. I'll never really know but I can't forget that sensation of wonderment- a hand fracture drug? really? And so I remain renewed in the most temporary sense. A drug for everything, why not?
And so it is this time. Because along with my story telling, there is that aspect of faith changing. I constantly battle with myself about whether to believe in the medicine, the doctor, the whole process of invasion- or to just let time and nature take their healing course. I battle about treating symptoms as opposed to finding out the real cause and taking prescriptions as opposed to using herbs and teas and the medicinal properties of foods to do their job. A recent pharmacy find had left me feeling secretly delighted - a sore throat spray containing mint and clove oils reminiscent of an all natural, essential oil spray I had bought at my favorite supply store back when receiving mail items was still possible. Mohamed confirmed everything with his comment, "Tastes just like the old one," after an initial trial spray.
My inner battle began anew when Mohamed showed me his swollen finger- fat and unmovable 3 days after a nasty fall. While it didn't hurt, it was easy enough to take him in for a quick exam to be sure it wasn't fractured or broken. Since we are still in the luxurious position to have insurance, it seemed wise to take advantage of it. The exam left me feeling dubious- as it often does. The doctor poked and prodded, pulled and massaged. Mohamed winced and gasped and closed his eyes. Predictably, we were sent for x-rays.
One day and several hand scans later, we arrived back at the doctor's office. While Mohamed was supremely thrilled to have gotten a look at his bones, the x-rays showed no fracture and so we were still left with a swollen, impaired finger. While the doctor typed away on his desktop, I asked about the next step. What should we do now? He was ready with his prescription paper and pain medicine. "But, he doesn't really have any pain. That's not the problem. The problem is his finger has been swollen for 4 days and he can't move it." I pointed out the obvious. It surely seemed to me the doctor was making things up as we went along. And I feel I should apologize in advance for not having faith in his ability. He mentioned something about massage therapy in a few days if the swelling didn't begin to go down and wrote a prescription to help with this.
I am sincere when I say I have no idea where my immediate disdain and disbelief of all things medical was born, but sure enough, it rose up like a fierce protecting dragon once again. Fine, I thought, we'll take the medicine, but that doesn't mean I actually have to give it to him. I vowed to look it up and find out exactly what farcical thing they were trying to prescribe now. I wanted to know why the finger was swollen, not just how to remove the symptom.
Perhaps my rebellious nature stems from the fact that there seems to be a remedy for everything (despite popular American belief, I am sure the cure for the common cold exists and can readily be found in any African drugstore.) Language probably also contributes to my inability to believe in the validity of the medicines. With my basic French, and their basic understanding of biology, I often find myself in vague and concerning conversations with friends that include phrases like "my blood is dirty" or "my heart hurts" or the ever alarming, slightly vague but oft present, "I thought I would die." There's a medicine for that- for all of those in fact. "Cleaning the blood," "calming the heart" and "saving you from imminent death." It conjures up images of 1800's America to me-- the traveling salesmen with suitcases of snakeoil. And if none of those things work, there is always the nganga who can provide a natural healing alternative. However, if I have to go pharmaceutical, I want long, awkward prescriptions I can't pronounce and medical sounding diagnoses.
Consistent with my illogical and contradictory nature, I become immediately suspicious of those un-sayable cures and commence to googling the minute I am within range of connectivity. Imagine my surprise when I looked up Chymoral and found it is a medicine used for swelling in hand fractures. So specific. So exactly to the point. I admit to feeling a little bit of awe. The doctor never even appeared to be consulting a text or double checking anything. He just knew about this amazing hand fracture drug. I got to thinking about the million different ailments one could suffer from and the million different remedies that were out there- each fitting the other like a glove. Had he really committed all of this to memory?
Mohamed took a dose that night. In the morning, he surprised me at the kitchen sink by saying, "Look Ma, I have some improvement," as he bent his finger halfway. Maybe it was the medicine. Maybe it was just a natural improvement after 5 days of swelling. Most likely a combination of each. I'll never really know but I can't forget that sensation of wonderment- a hand fracture drug? really? And so I remain renewed in the most temporary sense. A drug for everything, why not?
9.5.14
Perils of pregnancy
I hate being a woman. My last, big, terrible secret. I have always hated it. Even way back in elementary school, I knew the female gender was getting the raw end of the deal. Every time. I did not grow up with any strong female role models- or any role models at all for that matter- and so had nothing to contradict my instincts.
When puberty arrived, it only seemed to confirm what I already knew. Inconvenient, embarrassing and expensive. Those 3 words pretty much summed up my experience of "becoming a woman." In my late teens, I remember finding myself in a convenience store in the wee morning hours with a friend. She was picking up some supplies for her friend and we both remarked about the unfairness of it all. Guys didn't have this monthly expense to worry about. We thought maybe the government should even be responsible for picking up the tab. After all, it wasn't our fault we were women.
While that argument seems a little, well, juvenile now, turns out that accessing and affording sanitary pads is a very real crisis for many women in the world. This amazing man made it his own personal quest to find a sanitary solution for his wife and women all over his country, allowing them to continue to provide for their families, gather the daily water from rivers and community wells and miss less days of school. (The Indian government has announced it would hand out pads for the poorest women and girls- guess our idea wasn't so far from reality after all, 25 years later and an ocean away.)
Being a woman- and hating it- has, of course, led to many conflicting emotions throughout my life. I've often admired groups of women friends- how supportive, nurturing and understanding they seem. So strong together. But I have never been a part of a strong circle of women and so I can only watch from a distance and imagine how it is they are together. I have often wondered if I am the only one to hate being trapped in this form. They seem so confident and comfortable, downright smug at times.
Over the years, I've tried to get behind women causes and believe in the power of women. I've tried to tell myself that while being a man appears easier, it doesn't necessarily mean it would be more satisfying. Sometimes the hard thing is the worthwhile thing. Maybe this struggle through womanhood would turn out not to be so bad after all?
It actually appeared there might be some truth to that logic when I became pregnant with my first child. Oh the wonders. The glow. The joy of harboring life within and feeling it grow. I was completely transformed with the birth of my first son. I understood the power of womanhood and the grace of motherhood. Every indignity I had suffered definitely seemed worthwhile for the experience of this prize at the end.
Except it's not really the end. Motherhood is only the beginning. And while there are a billion blogs out there toting the newness and niceness of pregnancy and birth, there are just as many who get down to the real truth about toddlerhood and adolescence. Far too often, the initial glow of new mommies turns into the haggard despair of the infamous juggler- maid, chef, CEO, teacher, nurse, psychologist, chauffeur- and that's just in the "off" hours. So, back to feeling like being a woman isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Well, that might be part of the problem. It is all it's cracked up to be- it just isn't "cracked up" very much. Facts are, women have a bad wrap all over the world. It might be slowly changing in some parts, certain domains, but overall, we women still have to fight to be considered in the realm of men. We have to fight to have our stories told. (I'm trying hard not go off on a tangent here and explode with furious rebellion about all the ways women are put down, let down and kept down. Sticking to this one story....)
With age, I have learned to embrace my gender more and more. I still have occasional (ok, perhaps frequent is a more accurate description) days of bitterness over feeling that men have an unfairly and infinitely easier path to travel, but I spend more time learning to accept myself and my gender with all of its strengths and weaknesses. At 40 and pregnant with a much desired child, I thought perhaps I had conquered that nasty little secret once and for all. I can handle being a woman. And I might even admit to liking it at times.
There are not many other conditions in which people feel so free to invite themselves into your life as pregnancy. Strangers and acquaintances suddenly feel inclined to make comments, offer advice, good wishes or evil eyes, make judgements, reach out to rub baby bumps, and ask any sort of personal questions. It becomes something of a battle field trying to navigate your way through each day (and of course, with raging hormones completely unbalanced and out of control, the battle is usually lost long before it's even begun.)
With 4 months to go, I'm now in the middle of my 3rd major battle. Our upcoming move will hopefully deter any future conflicts. I have every intention of heading into labor and delivery conflict free. My first major battle involved the job hunting.Trying to impress a future employer while simultaneously letting them know you'll need a bit of time off right at the beginning of the contract is a risky move. Virtually impossible. The whole story about timing - well, that's the story of my entire life- but in this case it's long and personal and depressing. Let's just say, sometimes timing isn't the most important aspect to consider. (And I am beginning to realize the universe has it's own ideas about timing, which are often in direct contradiction to human ideals.)
Quite honestly, I began my job search thinking it wouldn't be such a major deal. I have had 4 healthy pregnancies in the past and adapted to suit need. I was able to bring my first child to work with me on occasion and often attended university with my second child. I was able to stay home for about 5 months with my third child and my fourth- well, I was back at work within a few weeks, startling my substitute who hadn't been told to expect me. In each case, I tried to meet the needs of myself, my newborn and whatever work obligations I had. I expect to do no less this time as well.
Turns out employers aren't nearly as flexible or forgiving and they don't want anything to do with a pregnant lady. I spent a lot time trying to figure out if this was prejudiced or not. Unjust or not. I could understand the prospective employers' thought that if the job started on day Y and the applicant wasn't available on day Y then perhaps that wasn't a good fit. Except in one case I was told by the employer that I was a good fit, had several desirable qualities and would bring skills much needed by the school. Until I revealed that I was pregnant. Suddenly, the big picture wasn't so big anymore. Those precious 2 weeks at the beginning of the year eclipsed all other value I might have had over the next two years. And if I were a man expecting a child? I wouldn't even have to bring it up.
My current battle has to do with my fitness routine. I've been kicked out. It's a horribly dejecting feeling. I'm trying not to take it personally or feel too bad about it- but I just end up feeling bitter. And it is personal. Why does someone else get to decide what is good for my body? And since when are adults no longer competent to judge what is or is not in their own best interests? Apparently, it's when they're pregnant. You are no longer your master. From a professional perspective, I suppose my fitness instructor has a right to do what makes her feel comfortable- it is her class. But I am stuck back at that question again. Prejudiced or not? Unjust or not? In this, my 5th pregnancy, I feel I have had some practice listening to my body and heeding it's signals. There have been times when I felt the workout wasn't working....and I've either made adjustments or left class early. But staying in shape is so incredibly important to my mental and physical health I would never consider giving it up altogether. With each of my other children, I danced with abandon. And no one ever asked me to stop.
So, on the eve of the end of one of the hardest years here in Kinshasa, one of the longest, loneliest, battle-fightingest years, I have been kicked out of my exercise group. Another blow to my already fragile ego. Surely I will emerge from this year as Superwoman, stronger and mightier than ever before (unless death grabs me first. Isn't that how the saying goes?) I tell myself I am ready to create my own plan (and stick to it!) but I know I hate exercise for exercise's sake. I hate solitary work outs. I have no inner strength and discipline (this is why I pay good money to listen to bad music and follow someone else's steps that I could do in the privacy of my own home. I need to be cajoled, forced, encouraged, and hand held.) While my exercise group wasn't necessarily a source of support or strength, it was a place filled with people. And movement.
I still have dance. There are at least 3 of those classes a week and I have been working more on the instructing side of dance- which I completely enjoy. But just about now I am feeling in need of that other kind of exercise, the kind I really love to hate. Toning. Lifting. Losing. All the things I never really focused on before because I was too busy feeling the thrill of the dance, the speed of the bike, the sensuality of the step. And I still do that. But I've also begun to worry a bit about the extras that weren't there before. (And can you ever really get thin ankles again anyway?)
Aside from realizing I now need to toughen up my inner discipline and find some way to stick to a routine, mostly I just feel left out. Unwanted. Shut down. Decided over. Once again a woman powerless. Because I am a woman. And someone else has decided it's ok for them to decide what's best for me. Does that ever happen to a man? Because if it does, I really need to hear that story. Maybe 3 of those stories. Right now. Before I go work on my thighs.
When puberty arrived, it only seemed to confirm what I already knew. Inconvenient, embarrassing and expensive. Those 3 words pretty much summed up my experience of "becoming a woman." In my late teens, I remember finding myself in a convenience store in the wee morning hours with a friend. She was picking up some supplies for her friend and we both remarked about the unfairness of it all. Guys didn't have this monthly expense to worry about. We thought maybe the government should even be responsible for picking up the tab. After all, it wasn't our fault we were women.
While that argument seems a little, well, juvenile now, turns out that accessing and affording sanitary pads is a very real crisis for many women in the world. This amazing man made it his own personal quest to find a sanitary solution for his wife and women all over his country, allowing them to continue to provide for their families, gather the daily water from rivers and community wells and miss less days of school. (The Indian government has announced it would hand out pads for the poorest women and girls- guess our idea wasn't so far from reality after all, 25 years later and an ocean away.)
Being a woman- and hating it- has, of course, led to many conflicting emotions throughout my life. I've often admired groups of women friends- how supportive, nurturing and understanding they seem. So strong together. But I have never been a part of a strong circle of women and so I can only watch from a distance and imagine how it is they are together. I have often wondered if I am the only one to hate being trapped in this form. They seem so confident and comfortable, downright smug at times.
Over the years, I've tried to get behind women causes and believe in the power of women. I've tried to tell myself that while being a man appears easier, it doesn't necessarily mean it would be more satisfying. Sometimes the hard thing is the worthwhile thing. Maybe this struggle through womanhood would turn out not to be so bad after all?
It actually appeared there might be some truth to that logic when I became pregnant with my first child. Oh the wonders. The glow. The joy of harboring life within and feeling it grow. I was completely transformed with the birth of my first son. I understood the power of womanhood and the grace of motherhood. Every indignity I had suffered definitely seemed worthwhile for the experience of this prize at the end.
Except it's not really the end. Motherhood is only the beginning. And while there are a billion blogs out there toting the newness and niceness of pregnancy and birth, there are just as many who get down to the real truth about toddlerhood and adolescence. Far too often, the initial glow of new mommies turns into the haggard despair of the infamous juggler- maid, chef, CEO, teacher, nurse, psychologist, chauffeur- and that's just in the "off" hours. So, back to feeling like being a woman isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Well, that might be part of the problem. It is all it's cracked up to be- it just isn't "cracked up" very much. Facts are, women have a bad wrap all over the world. It might be slowly changing in some parts, certain domains, but overall, we women still have to fight to be considered in the realm of men. We have to fight to have our stories told. (I'm trying hard not go off on a tangent here and explode with furious rebellion about all the ways women are put down, let down and kept down. Sticking to this one story....)
With age, I have learned to embrace my gender more and more. I still have occasional (ok, perhaps frequent is a more accurate description) days of bitterness over feeling that men have an unfairly and infinitely easier path to travel, but I spend more time learning to accept myself and my gender with all of its strengths and weaknesses. At 40 and pregnant with a much desired child, I thought perhaps I had conquered that nasty little secret once and for all. I can handle being a woman. And I might even admit to liking it at times.
There are not many other conditions in which people feel so free to invite themselves into your life as pregnancy. Strangers and acquaintances suddenly feel inclined to make comments, offer advice, good wishes or evil eyes, make judgements, reach out to rub baby bumps, and ask any sort of personal questions. It becomes something of a battle field trying to navigate your way through each day (and of course, with raging hormones completely unbalanced and out of control, the battle is usually lost long before it's even begun.)
With 4 months to go, I'm now in the middle of my 3rd major battle. Our upcoming move will hopefully deter any future conflicts. I have every intention of heading into labor and delivery conflict free. My first major battle involved the job hunting.Trying to impress a future employer while simultaneously letting them know you'll need a bit of time off right at the beginning of the contract is a risky move. Virtually impossible. The whole story about timing - well, that's the story of my entire life- but in this case it's long and personal and depressing. Let's just say, sometimes timing isn't the most important aspect to consider. (And I am beginning to realize the universe has it's own ideas about timing, which are often in direct contradiction to human ideals.)
Quite honestly, I began my job search thinking it wouldn't be such a major deal. I have had 4 healthy pregnancies in the past and adapted to suit need. I was able to bring my first child to work with me on occasion and often attended university with my second child. I was able to stay home for about 5 months with my third child and my fourth- well, I was back at work within a few weeks, startling my substitute who hadn't been told to expect me. In each case, I tried to meet the needs of myself, my newborn and whatever work obligations I had. I expect to do no less this time as well.
Turns out employers aren't nearly as flexible or forgiving and they don't want anything to do with a pregnant lady. I spent a lot time trying to figure out if this was prejudiced or not. Unjust or not. I could understand the prospective employers' thought that if the job started on day Y and the applicant wasn't available on day Y then perhaps that wasn't a good fit. Except in one case I was told by the employer that I was a good fit, had several desirable qualities and would bring skills much needed by the school. Until I revealed that I was pregnant. Suddenly, the big picture wasn't so big anymore. Those precious 2 weeks at the beginning of the year eclipsed all other value I might have had over the next two years. And if I were a man expecting a child? I wouldn't even have to bring it up.
My current battle has to do with my fitness routine. I've been kicked out. It's a horribly dejecting feeling. I'm trying not to take it personally or feel too bad about it- but I just end up feeling bitter. And it is personal. Why does someone else get to decide what is good for my body? And since when are adults no longer competent to judge what is or is not in their own best interests? Apparently, it's when they're pregnant. You are no longer your master. From a professional perspective, I suppose my fitness instructor has a right to do what makes her feel comfortable- it is her class. But I am stuck back at that question again. Prejudiced or not? Unjust or not? In this, my 5th pregnancy, I feel I have had some practice listening to my body and heeding it's signals. There have been times when I felt the workout wasn't working....and I've either made adjustments or left class early. But staying in shape is so incredibly important to my mental and physical health I would never consider giving it up altogether. With each of my other children, I danced with abandon. And no one ever asked me to stop.
So, on the eve of the end of one of the hardest years here in Kinshasa, one of the longest, loneliest, battle-fightingest years, I have been kicked out of my exercise group. Another blow to my already fragile ego. Surely I will emerge from this year as Superwoman, stronger and mightier than ever before (unless death grabs me first. Isn't that how the saying goes?) I tell myself I am ready to create my own plan (and stick to it!) but I know I hate exercise for exercise's sake. I hate solitary work outs. I have no inner strength and discipline (this is why I pay good money to listen to bad music and follow someone else's steps that I could do in the privacy of my own home. I need to be cajoled, forced, encouraged, and hand held.) While my exercise group wasn't necessarily a source of support or strength, it was a place filled with people. And movement.
I still have dance. There are at least 3 of those classes a week and I have been working more on the instructing side of dance- which I completely enjoy. But just about now I am feeling in need of that other kind of exercise, the kind I really love to hate. Toning. Lifting. Losing. All the things I never really focused on before because I was too busy feeling the thrill of the dance, the speed of the bike, the sensuality of the step. And I still do that. But I've also begun to worry a bit about the extras that weren't there before. (And can you ever really get thin ankles again anyway?)
Aside from realizing I now need to toughen up my inner discipline and find some way to stick to a routine, mostly I just feel left out. Unwanted. Shut down. Decided over. Once again a woman powerless. Because I am a woman. And someone else has decided it's ok for them to decide what's best for me. Does that ever happen to a man? Because if it does, I really need to hear that story. Maybe 3 of those stories. Right now. Before I go work on my thighs.
1.5.14
When Brothers Fight
I've been reading In the Time of Madness: Indonesia on the Edge of Chaos by Richard Lloyd Parry. I haven't found it to be great writing- though I am admittedly very much near the beginning still. It has received good reviews in terms of being an accurate portrayal of a country's decent into war and strife.
So far I am feeling like it is just a string of horrible events only slightly related and without much story line. I can't put anything in context. Maybe it's coming.
What I am struck by, however, is how fast or perhaps how deeply two ethnic groups become opposed to one another. How entire groups of people can be overcome by fear and loathing to such a degree they are blinded to the humanity of the other. One reviewer on the GoodReads site mentions that current state of Indonesia being such that it is "ripe for future strife and mob mentality..." I am not exactly sure what conditions she perceives as creating a culture more likely to cave into mob mentality. It seems to me any group of people are prone to this when faced with uncertainties that have been allowed to grow to mythic proportions, i.e. the deliberate or unintentional perpetuation of ignorance about a situation of group of people deemed "the other." It could happen anywhere.
And it's happening now in Kinshasa. While I can't seem to find much in the news or anywhere online (a few videos of demonstrations and the predictably disturbing graphic photos that reveal no source or caption to confirm contextual information that so often pop up on FB) word on the street is prolific. There's a fight going on between Brazza and Kin and it's not real clear who the bully is- depends on which side you're talking to.
Previously, whenever I'd heard mention of the sister cities, I'd always heard it in the context of 'we're all one country, just separated by a river. They are our brothers." Family ties have severed in what seems like a matter of weeks (actually appeared like an overnight phenomenon to me but it's probably just due to the lag time in my ability to get information from informal sources. I don't really have numerous connections. Just an American girl in Kinshasa.)
I was able to unearth a bit of history while fact searching and, as it turns out, this isn't the first time tensions have erupted between the countries. In April 2011 there was an attack on the Presidential Palace on Kinshasa- with said attackers reportedly coming from Brazzaville. While I'd heard the story at the time, what I neglected to understand was that the alleged attackers hailed from Kinshasa but had been taking refuge in the Republic of Congo. The incident brought up renewed interest in trying to have General Munene returned to Kinshasa where he is wanted to serve a life imprisonment for his part in a rebellion. Tensions go even further back to the time of DRC's first President, Joseph Kasavubu.
What has been particularly disturbing to me this round has been the surprising sentiments from people I thought I knew (realizing of course, that you can never really know someone. If there is one thing I am learning in Africa, it's this. Beyond the masks used for dance and ritual lie a myriad of socially constructed masks behind which one can never be sure what is hiding.)
Statements of outright hatred and prejudiced made against an entire country of people. After reflection, it is really not so new. When I was traveling in Guinea just after the assassination attempt of their president, it was often remarked, " Oh, you're American? Ok. Good thing you're not French." And on one occasion, "No, she's American, not French," was called across a backyard we happened to be passing through as an introduction and request for continued passage. Good thing I guess, because citizens are not separated from government policy and when in a foreign land you are no longer just your own person.
While it may be nothing new (kidnappings of foreigners across the continent serve as a daily reminder of this phenomenon- how quickly one can be turned into a pawn in the game of political chess and warfare)- it is fairly cliche to admit that because it is now something I can hear with my own ears and witness with my own eyes, it is ever more surprising.
I've heard several versions of the story- from the idea that the Kinois in Brazaville are there without proper documents and are accused of thug-like behavior and as such have been asked to leave. Only they haven't necessarily wanted to leave and haven't exactly been arrested and deported but have been beaten and even killed on the streets. A populace that has risen up and taken their frustrations into the immediacy of the moment.
This has incited Kinois both in Kinshasa and living abroad. They are rallying against the violence, calling for Congolese from Brazzaville living in Kinshasa to go back home as well. There have been threats from both sides of the river. The biggest problem seems to be no one is exactly sure how it all got started. This article suggests an affront towards President Nguesso in March, with the expulsion of the Kinois from the country as a retaliation in saving face.
In the end, it seems unlikely a true story will emerge, impossible in fact. Politics has no truth. And it is always the ordinary citizens, caught up in the uncertainties, the deceptions, and the insecurities of the 'big boys' who will suffer.
I keep hearing that voice in my head, as I sat with two best friends, one from Kinshasa, the other from Brazzaville. "We are brothers. There is no difference between us." So they said then. One can't really be sure what will happen now that the brothers are fighting.
So far I am feeling like it is just a string of horrible events only slightly related and without much story line. I can't put anything in context. Maybe it's coming.
What I am struck by, however, is how fast or perhaps how deeply two ethnic groups become opposed to one another. How entire groups of people can be overcome by fear and loathing to such a degree they are blinded to the humanity of the other. One reviewer on the GoodReads site mentions that current state of Indonesia being such that it is "ripe for future strife and mob mentality..." I am not exactly sure what conditions she perceives as creating a culture more likely to cave into mob mentality. It seems to me any group of people are prone to this when faced with uncertainties that have been allowed to grow to mythic proportions, i.e. the deliberate or unintentional perpetuation of ignorance about a situation of group of people deemed "the other." It could happen anywhere.
And it's happening now in Kinshasa. While I can't seem to find much in the news or anywhere online (a few videos of demonstrations and the predictably disturbing graphic photos that reveal no source or caption to confirm contextual information that so often pop up on FB) word on the street is prolific. There's a fight going on between Brazza and Kin and it's not real clear who the bully is- depends on which side you're talking to.
Previously, whenever I'd heard mention of the sister cities, I'd always heard it in the context of 'we're all one country, just separated by a river. They are our brothers." Family ties have severed in what seems like a matter of weeks (actually appeared like an overnight phenomenon to me but it's probably just due to the lag time in my ability to get information from informal sources. I don't really have numerous connections. Just an American girl in Kinshasa.)
I was able to unearth a bit of history while fact searching and, as it turns out, this isn't the first time tensions have erupted between the countries. In April 2011 there was an attack on the Presidential Palace on Kinshasa- with said attackers reportedly coming from Brazzaville. While I'd heard the story at the time, what I neglected to understand was that the alleged attackers hailed from Kinshasa but had been taking refuge in the Republic of Congo. The incident brought up renewed interest in trying to have General Munene returned to Kinshasa where he is wanted to serve a life imprisonment for his part in a rebellion. Tensions go even further back to the time of DRC's first President, Joseph Kasavubu.
What has been particularly disturbing to me this round has been the surprising sentiments from people I thought I knew (realizing of course, that you can never really know someone. If there is one thing I am learning in Africa, it's this. Beyond the masks used for dance and ritual lie a myriad of socially constructed masks behind which one can never be sure what is hiding.)
Statements of outright hatred and prejudiced made against an entire country of people. After reflection, it is really not so new. When I was traveling in Guinea just after the assassination attempt of their president, it was often remarked, " Oh, you're American? Ok. Good thing you're not French." And on one occasion, "No, she's American, not French," was called across a backyard we happened to be passing through as an introduction and request for continued passage. Good thing I guess, because citizens are not separated from government policy and when in a foreign land you are no longer just your own person.
While it may be nothing new (kidnappings of foreigners across the continent serve as a daily reminder of this phenomenon- how quickly one can be turned into a pawn in the game of political chess and warfare)- it is fairly cliche to admit that because it is now something I can hear with my own ears and witness with my own eyes, it is ever more surprising.
I've heard several versions of the story- from the idea that the Kinois in Brazaville are there without proper documents and are accused of thug-like behavior and as such have been asked to leave. Only they haven't necessarily wanted to leave and haven't exactly been arrested and deported but have been beaten and even killed on the streets. A populace that has risen up and taken their frustrations into the immediacy of the moment.
This has incited Kinois both in Kinshasa and living abroad. They are rallying against the violence, calling for Congolese from Brazzaville living in Kinshasa to go back home as well. There have been threats from both sides of the river. The biggest problem seems to be no one is exactly sure how it all got started. This article suggests an affront towards President Nguesso in March, with the expulsion of the Kinois from the country as a retaliation in saving face.
In the end, it seems unlikely a true story will emerge, impossible in fact. Politics has no truth. And it is always the ordinary citizens, caught up in the uncertainties, the deceptions, and the insecurities of the 'big boys' who will suffer.
I keep hearing that voice in my head, as I sat with two best friends, one from Kinshasa, the other from Brazzaville. "We are brothers. There is no difference between us." So they said then. One can't really be sure what will happen now that the brothers are fighting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)