passport pressure

I had one of those insignificant experiences today that ends up telling us more about who we really are and what we think and believe than a planned introspection could do. I had taken the children to get passport photos, deciding two of us need to renew our passports and the other needs a new one. We went the cheap convenient route- a drug store 1 hour photo deal. In my effort to be nonchalant, we ended up with some very bad photos. The children were fairly restless during the wait, but being such cuties earned the attention of the salesclerk who showered them with stickers and affection. She tried to make polite conversation with me and I found myself the subject of a barrage of uncomfortable questions fired with sincerity but hitting the mark with intensity.

"Where are you going?" I didn't want to answer this mostly because we haven't told the kids yet. It is still my private secret, hidden like a jewel that I have only taken out to share with a few friends. I tried to sidestep the question with a deft "Oh, we're just getting prepared" but that didn't sway the determined,curious....ok, nosy, young lady. I was pressured into responding "Africa" with none of the zeal and passion that I usually exhibit. For some reason she made me wary. Because she was black- I must plainly admit it. I guess this is also why she felt free to go ahead and ask me if all of the children were mine.

I really had to think about this answer, if only because I have been feeling such anxiety over our relationship lately. Here I am in a pharmacy being questioned by some young thing who is unknowingly making me evalute my entire life's relationships, its failures and consequences, my own personal misgivings and inability to forge a bond of understanding between these two children; many times I feel like I just don't like them. I wonder if it is possible to help them change and at the same time feel completely overwhelmed with the task. I wonder whatever happened to my lofty dreams of welcoming these 2 as my own and helping them navigate the webs of our American culture. There are so many things, things I don't want to discuss here, having decided this is not a "tell all" but rather a "tell something" of one perspective of my life, the journey to Africa.

Which must begin with me and this clerk discussing the biology behind my tribe of children. After all, this is what she's asking, and feeling free to do so. Which of these many hued children belong to you? I mumble something about this being a collection of kids between my husband and me and eventually create some distance. I feel like my life is ever more rich than she has reduced me to and I am put out most definately that she has intruded in even this little way.

I leave with my collection of bad photos and adorable children. I wonder if vanity or finances will win in the battle over bad lighting. And I wonder if there is any way to make the image of our sweet family match the reality. I thought that knowing I was going would allow me to be more patient and forgiving. I am just as baffled by the children as ever and am vowing once again, as I do every day, to make the morrow kind and gentle.
But I also have to question myself. Any reason why I couldn't have just said yes?

Day 1

This countdown does not lead to blast-off or even to zero. This is the kind of countdown that leads, essentially, to another countdown. The business of business before the business of waiting. But I have discovered no need for plan B. And this has led to the first real communication in my house in several months. Because my first thoughts were that I can't really go without him. Of course, I can and I would go. I will go. But it will be easier to carry the idea of him with me than to think we are going off to become lost in the vast regions of Congo with nothing to carry us home again.

So this begins the preparation period. I have many tasks to turn my attention to here and many things to try and put in order. Opening one door has led to the possibility of others. We talk of moving south, into the sunshine. I would like to get him set up in a functional way, one that doesn't really require me to support. It seems a bit crazy to think we could continue a marriage this way, with me jetting off to Africa with our 2 youngest and him moving south with his 2.

Honestly, I'm not sure we can. But I still feel more comfortable setting out on a journey having a connection behind. I've always been able to compare myself to a leaf floating downstream, not really connected to any one port but passing them all by, maybe even with a little resistance but finding no root to reach out and grab onto. I've always had some fear of drifting off, never to be seen again...but by who? If you have no family and such a small circle of friends that the 's' is really just a formality, then can you really disappear? Did you ever really exist in the first place?

Allah Akbar. Its the realization of a dream. Alhamdu lil lahi. I guess time will tell what kind of a dream. But I have been filled with gratitude and hope.


And I have some internal work to do, I'm sure. Some terms to come with, as she spoke of 'an idyllic garden' and 'everybody needs help, really, I've come to see it as our duty to hire them.." Bordering on the edge of the elite for me. A privileged lifestyle, it sounds, in the midst of chaos and need. I have enough trouble coping with the atrocities of Africa a million miles away. I'm not sure I'll fare much better a mere hundred away. I can be too sensitive, overcome with sympathy for things I cannot change, taking on pain that does not really belong to me.

Which is why I found it all too ironic when she spoke of the 5 million dying from starvation and disease as "it will affect your daily life as much there as it does here, which is to say, not all that much."

Unless you're me and this is the kind of stuff that keeps you up at night, every night.
But she thought I was perfect for Congo, and I thought, "Finally, someone who can really see me. "

Day 3

Time is passing incredibilty slowly for me. It is not just the silence of my house but the silence of me. I am supposed to be preparing for what I will do if this whole scheme doesn't work out. Initially I was very caught up in feeling that I already had the position. I have since convinced myself that it is in no way certain and anything could happen. There are hundreds of people trying to get these positions, and they don't have children tagging along, and maybe they are part of a couple, each with something to contribute.

So I am trying to make a plan B. The trouble is that I easily get swept away. I can't really imagine that my husband is leaving, but if it is so, then what is there to keep me here? And if it is not so, do we really have to stay here? I cannot stand another winter. It is so long, so cold, so dark and I am terrible at venturing out into the weather. Cabin fever.

When there are no ties of family or friendship, what do you do? I tend to pick a warm sounding place...something that might have a diverse population. I tend to stay away from places in Texas, Alabama, other equally scary rural parts. Bright lights, big city. America can be a very small place.

The real plan was not to move but to have patience and wait for the right opportunity to arrive. It could take years, I have told myself. But I'm not really a great listener. I am a perfect Taurus. I am so stubborn. And I am incrediblity un-patient; impatient. It is one of my great secrets. People mistake my quiet for all kinds of things. They never seem to truly get it. As a result I have been accused of all kinds of attributes.

I feel frozen with anticipation. I have been here before too. I feel like I have always been here- waiting. Waiting to get on with the real business of living, if only I could take care of this little business first. Of course, it only leads to just another small piece of business which must be attended to before the real business can be taken care of then I can get down to the real living...

I've been trying to figure this out. Why can't I just settle in to where I am? Committ? Yes, I am realizing my committment problems. I can't imagine living out my life in any one place, for any length of time, going to the same job everyday. People do this, people strive for this. I seem to spend all of my time rejecting it. But I have been doing it. I'm here for three years now, really more because we only had one short year away. I've been here forever. Always dreaming of getting away, of some grander place where 'real lives' happen. I know its not true. Small towns across America, across the world really, are filled with people creating lives based on family and friendships.

This is the real problem. I can't manage these relationships. I don't have any friends. (I do have one, she knows who she is.) But I don't have a network, a support system, not even a social chat system. My family? Lost along the way, casualities of the marriage I believe.

I'm not sure I'm making sense here. Perhaps this is bringing out the worst in me. Just lately I have felt I've lost my footing, slipped on uncertain ground. I recognize the slow steps and gradual losses that have brought me here, to this place where I am now. I miss the bits of myself I've lost along the way. I used to be so in tune with my natural environment. Now, I view it from behind my windshield. I used to paint everyday. Now, the paint is for the children and only when I think I can handle the mess. Do I think a trip across an ocean to another continent can help me to renew this sense of myself, this person I've lost?

I used to think that.

fear

I'm not here to explore the dissolution of my marriage (something I am still completely struggling with) or to discuss the complexities (ie. mess) of my life. Rather, I had hoped to examine the convergence of tragedies that have led me to this space, standing on the edge of a dream. I've been here before, about to enter a world which I thought I wanted. I am well aware of getting what you wish only to find out you hadn't wished it completely so. That is exactly what is causing me pause here.

I have never wanted to be plagued with regret. I'm finding it may not be entirely possible. The move to Florida remains something of an example. I can often lament the unwelcome changes it brought. But, knowing myself so well, I can realize that had I not scaled the coast of a country I would be grappling, not with the loss of a life I knew, but the loss of a life that could have been.

Africa has been inside my soul since the day I could see it seems. I fell in love first with the art. The history of art: Egyptian relics, wooden masks of the forest, capable of creating and calling spirits whose wisdom far exceeded our own. I think that was the first draw. Never having a history of family secrets and recipes and rites of passage to rely on, I searched outward. It is easy to fall into the myths of Africa. It is a land brimming with hidden worlds and spiritual knowledge, history, community, all of the things I could not find in my adolescent longing for a simple surname.

I had always wondered what it would be like to be recognized as "McCoy" or a "DeAngelis" or any of the names that brought forth a bounty of brothers, sisters, cousins and aunts, uncles and grandparents. I found this much later after a long journey of acceptance and denial and effort. I found a place where my name is recognized. And that is a beginning.

I've shed a bit of my early notions of magic and ancient secrets. I'm more in tune with the realities and hardships of Africa. I've grown to love the music, the food, the fabric, the very design of African life. But I do have to remember to be cautious, not to get too caught up in the romance of my vision and to keep at least one foot grounded in the reality of my decision.

This is why, at times, I am frantic with fear about the things that can wrong. This is what I fear. A snakebite. Malaria. After election guerilla skirmishes. I don't hold this fear for myself so much as for the baby. I call him that, although he is 3 now. I never liked to hear others doing that. I would l think defiantly in my mind, 'That child is no baby.' But here I am, with my last, stubbornly clinging to the idea. Standing right beside the conviction that this presents an invaluable opportunity to experience the world is the rational notion that unspeakable tragedy could easily unfold. (Maybe it is just my mother speaking, as all mother's must, in the wee hours of the night.)

I don't fear things here. I don't fear any of the American things that spoil a childhood, tragedies that could just as easily occur here as there. Perhaps because leaving implies making a concious choice hence the possibility for blame and guilt. These are things inherent in parenthood. A brief Catholic schooling at an impressionable age has left me practiced in the art of assuming guilt.

I want to walk forward strong and sure in my future. I know that this is the final place I have not searched, the final voyage that can bring me to peace. If I cannot find it there, then surely I am a doomed soul of tragic proportions.

So there is fear, there is the desire to examine every future event and make ammends with the possibilities. I cannot. I fear the irretractable. Is it fair to say that just as much I fear becoming stagnent, standing still and never pushing forward? I fear a life with no passion.

the countdown

The silence here is thick and toxic, a smoke drifting through the house threatening to choke me out. I move towards the door to make a quick escape into the crisp night air. But I've nowhere to go really and so I drive. I find parking lots that are well-lit and try to read a newspaper. I pass houses of people I know, happily married couples, and wonder what it is they've got that we're missing.

I don't know how we arrived at this point. It's not just the silence but the distance. We don't even look at each other. Two people sharing space, passing each other blindly and quietly, strangers with children. The few times that the silence has been broken, I find myself lost in a swirling world of fantasy and confusion. I do not understand what he is saying and I cannot comprehend his suspicions.

Reflecting on our short life together, it is hard not to see it as a series of losses. We were a clash of cultures and colors and languages. A charming and passionate beginning. But always there were threatening phone calls and forces pushing on us, trying to break us apart. Initially, I was niavely surprised at the intensity of the bigotry bearing down on us. But I quickly came to see the lethal combination of ignorance and money. I remember one specific phone call..."You want a brown baby? See what happens if you have a brown baby."

Ironically, I was a bit disappointed in the fact that both my little cuties were fair colored newborns. They have grown into bronze little boys that could pass for Hispanic or Arab, maybe Egyptian. Though truly African-American in a very literal sense of the word, they are lighter than many American African- Americans. But this has not deterred the attackers.

The first loss I suffered was custody of my two older children. A power play involving money and time that I just couldn't manufacture. You think you will do anything for your children, but without support and cash you find yourself at the mercy of a system that recognizes neither truth nor justice. It is a capital system based on capitalist principles.

We moved to Florida in hopes of a new life, a chance at the sunny American dream I had come to believe was only a fairy tale. My husband, being a new immigrant, had no doubt the tales were true and attainable. For a time, I survived on his dreams. I missed my children.

We returned to our home, destroyed by renters and soon lost to foreclosure. We had been able to purchase another, which was soon destroyed by arson. There are not many secrets of the world I look forward to being revealed, but this, I'm waiting for God to show me the truth of this. Who can hold such hate that they are moved to burn down a life?

The next loss came in the form of a house as well, a rental this time. He had gone back home to arrange the immigration of his children. I was left here with our two little ones and a mound of expenses. I just couldn't do it alone. We passed the winter with no heat and little food. I could no longer keep up with the insurance or car payments. We lost his. Finally, we moved to a smaller place. He had been gone for 5 months. The distance continued to grow.

I kept thinking of the soldiers off in Iraq. How their families were split for a much more noble (if misguided) cause. But in the midst of our own personal tragedies, our troubles seem big and insurmountable enough. Mostly I was just lonely. He wasn't off fighting a war. I began to suspect he was off on vacation. Maybe somewhere deep inside (really deep) I knew it wasn't true. I became weighted down with the pressure of supporting it all.

I've always had two opposing views of my life. In one I am part of a team, working together to acheive our life long dreams and provide the best loving home we can for our family. We grow old together and laugh at each others idiosyncracies. In another, I am independent. I am alone and never completely understood by those around me. A survivor, as someone once told me. It hasn't meant that I am happy with how my life events have turned out, but it has meant that I continue to strive for my dreams and look to the future.

So I begin to count down the days to my interview. Seven days to find out if I have been accepted to this life changing position. Crossing continents and touching my dream.

standing on the edge

I guess this is always the beginning, right on the edge of many endings. Being a sensible Taurus I embrace and abhor change. I'm trying to find the signs of wisdom to prevent future angst. I want to have foresight rather than hindsight. I'm trying not to be so cliche; nothing is more disappointing to me than to suffer through my losses and muddle through my confusions only to find its all so ordinary and....well, cliche. I guess this is supposed to provide a bit of comfort, in the end I just feel foolish. Aren't we supposed to learn from those before us?

What brings me here, to the place of endings and beginnings? A grand sense that the world is ending. I actually had to check with 2 of my friends to be sure, 'It's not really ending is it? The world, I mean." They've assured me its not but I'm less than certain I believe them. I've suspected for quite some time now. There is entirely too much suffering going on in the world.

Personally, I can count myself among the lucky, the fortunate. I have the basics, most of the time. And if I haven't, I do have the capability to hang on until my finances are righted, if only temporary again.

Its hard to remember the big ideas when you're caught up in the small details of a life. My marriage is giving all the clear signs of being over. My job is giving all the clear signs of requiring change. And it seems the best time to pursue my African dream. There has never been a time when Africa didn't reach inside and speak to me, sweep me away with lightly whispered secrets. In one week I will know if all these forces of change haven't conspired for some greater reason- the realization of a dream. Of course it will take a bit longer to find out if the promises of this new lover hold any more strength and truth than those of past.