'the help'

it has begun.  the settling in.  the real unpacking.  the nesting.  books are going in bookcases.  pictures on walls.  linens on shelves.  it's happening.  we are here.

the boys are in school.  we drive them there in our car with the backwards steering wheel and ugandan license plates and expensive diesel gas sold by the liter not the gallon. 

i'm starting to think in shillings not dollars.  kilometers not miles.  centimeters not inches.  i'm starting to not be shocked that milk and delicious fruit and vegetables are amazingly cheap, but anything with a plug is ridiculously expensive.

but there are somethings that are still strange, still unsettling. 

before i moved, our last book of book club for me was 'the help' by kathryn stockett.  i admit i only got about 60 pages into it before we met- but it was a lively discussion given that we were all living in the south and our book club was made of many different people- black and white, northerners and southerners, people who's aunts and grandmothers had been maids and whose ancestors had been slaves, and people who'd grown up raised by 'the help'.  being a white woman from the north, i found it all fascinating but i also felt somewhat removed- unlike some of the women, who'd lived parts of it. 

then i moved to uganda.  i moved from a world of primarily caucasian and african american- to african.  i became the minority, i am the muzungu- and that is how i am referred to.  i don't speak much luganda yet- but i understand "......muzungu.......muzungu". 

despite this, i now, have 'help'.  florence is a beautiful woman who comes every morning for the day and tends to our house.  she helps with the cleaning, and the laundry, and sometimes the kids.  she always smiles, always refuses the tea or food i offer her, eats her own food in our kitchen, and doesn't say much except if i speak to her first.  and while i love florence, and i do, it's weird. 

it's weird because i'm not used to it.  and i don't like sitting on my couch, being on the computer, while florence is ironing my kids underwear ( you have to iron the line-dried clothes because flies lay eggs in them- the ironing kills the eggs).  it just doesn't seem 'right' to me, but i don't think it's 'wrong' either.

when we moved into this house- we found out that florence had been with the family living here for 7 years- maybe more.  she was really hoping that the next family, us, would want to hire her.  so we did.
it was expected.  it would have been weird if we didn't. 

florence and i have had some great conversations over the two weeks we've gotten to know each other.  i've found out where she's from, and what her family situation is like.  i know she's never seen a mamba but has seen many cobras.  i've seen how much see loves children and how she has a spirit of peace and joy and optimism and the ability to make the best of things.  although she would never say it, her presence reminds me daily of how hard ugandans, and probably most of the world, have to work, and how little the pay off is.  of how so many ugandans are caring for nieces and grandchildren who have lost their parents to AIDS, of how much loss there is everywhere, and death even, and how life itself is a struggle.  some of our conversations have been about these things.  some of our conversations have been about zoe and explaining her to florence.  something about zoe fascinates florence.  she seems to already care deeply for her.  and it turns out that florence has a relative a few hours away, who cares for and teaches children with autism.  so we've had many discussions about special education schools and needs of children etc.

what is so strange to me is to hear her apparent prejudice toward her own people.  she'll say, "you don't want to go to that school- it's only for ugandans, there are no whites there, it's not a good school." or  "you might look at this school, it's run by whites."  and it's unsettling.  it leaves me confused.  is she just saying that because i'm white and she thinks i wouldn't want my child to go to a school that was all african?  does she know something about the ugandan school standards that i don't know?  why does she think it would be bad if a school were run by ugandans? or does she not think that, but thinks i think that?

i don't know.  but as i unpacked the books today i reach over and started to read 'the help' from where i'd left off.  i feel less removed from it now.  and even though i know it's culturally very different, i'm curious to see what i'll learn from it- or relate to- or not. 

but whatever i read, and however weird i feel, i'm so thankful for florence.  her presence, her smile, her knowing what to do, her quick love of my children, her company, and honestly, her help.