blind side(d)

things get lost in translation.  culture colors everything.  it's like another dimension.  it's another form of communication; verbal, nonverbal, and cultural.  i've been struggling with many issues about and around this. issues of perception, and reality and the meaning behind what is said or conveyed. 

on saturday our kid's ugandan friend came over and brought with him a note from his teacher who he lives with.  it was requesting that we keep him for the day as she was busy and going into town, and would be back after dinner. i had mixed feelings.  of course on one hand, i was fine with him being around, and he often ends up spending saturdays at our house.  on the other hand i felt slightly resentful.  the request came after she'd already left for town, so i felt obligated and a little unsure of how to interpret it culturally.  maybe this is normal here. maybe this is appropriate.

during dinner, he announced that he'd called his teacher and she'd told him that he should sleep at our house because she wasn't coming back until the next day.  now i felt only resentful- and confused.  did he really talk to his teacher?  did she really tell him to say that? (which seems very inappropriate - but again - perhaps not in ugandan culture?)  or did he tell her that we'd invited him to stay the night?  and because this was announced at dinner, all our children where saying "yeah! lets have him sleep over!"

meanwhile, he's almost 14.  i have a 12 year old girl and my boys who he mostly plays, with are 6 and 4.  i don't know his parents, or anyone in his family, i don't know him that well either.  so i really don't want him to sleep over- i don't actually think it's appropriate for him to sleep over and certainly not to announce that he needs to, during dinner, now that it's dark!  i told him mike and i would talk about it and i started to clean up the kitchen with my headlamp because the power was out again.

and i felt total conflict.  annoyed.  resentful. sad. guilty. and mostly confused as my mind raced with images of all the absurd and unlikely things that could happen to our family or house if he slept over, as well as all the things that could happen to him if he didn't.  and i muttered a quick prayer of 'i don't know what the right thing to do is.... HELP!!'

most of my feelings were wrapped up in not understanding the culture- as well as how we fit into the culture.  what gets lost in translation? maybe it's appropriate to do this- maybe because people tend to be raised by the extended family or even the village- maybe this is equivalent to asking for a ride home from school.  maybe it's not considered weird for a 14 year old boy to want to spend hours playing with a 4 and 6 year old.  but i also felt taken advantage of.  are we just viewed as wealthy westerners who can and ought to feed and house random ugandan teens?  does he want to hang out with my boys so he can watch movies and eat cookies and play with their toys, or does he really like spending time with them?  are we being used because we are muzungus?  why is he not going to hang out with a ugandan professor and their kids?  but i felt tremendous guilt about all this- i felt relatively rich and obligated- but where does that obligation end or even begin?  and of course what popped into my mind was the movie 'blindside' where sandra bullock takes in the homeless african american teenage boy from the other side of the tracks to sleep in her house (even with her teenage daughter)- because she can- because it's the right thing to do. 

finally when i was about to cry, mike walked into the kitchen and i told him i didn't know what to do and i'd defer to him.  and that handy compartmentalization came in again.
"he's not spending the night! there is no way he can't get back into his boarding school and sleep in his bed, even if his teacher isn't coming home - someone will let him in!"

i then listened as mike spoke with him, and i washed the rest of the dishes thankfully tonight- as i didn't want to have that conversation.  mike confirmed that our friend could indeed still get into his dorm, even if his teacher was out, and then explained that it's not appropriate for him to sleep over and that it's not appropriate for his teacher to expect that he just can. then in typical obedient ugandan child style- he prompted left.

but for me, this was far from settled. 

so mike and i sat in the dark and discussed for hours, but the gist was like this.
k:  we've come here to serve.  to give of our selves.  to help. 
m:  we are.  that doesn't mean we need to accommodate every request that comes our way.
k:  what about doing for one what you wish you could do for everyone?
m:  we came her to teach, and to practice medicine and architecture- to give and serve in a way that will continue here after we leave.
k:  what would Jesus do? wouldn't he have let him sleepover?
m:  i think Jesus would have set up boundaries like we did.  we've fed him several meals, given him a hot shower, but he needs to know what we think is appropriate and not- it's a relationship- Jesus was all about relationships.

the whole thing made me understand why people avoid things and/ or set up high and firm boundaries to protect themselves from exposure.  relationships are hard- especially across cultures. sometimes you can feel so surrounded by the needs that you want to have mirrored car windows, where sunglasses everywhere and isolate. and i'm ashamed to say, on the way home from church the next day, i muttered another prayer, 'please don't let him be hanging out on our front porch' i just didn't want to deal.  he wasn't there, instead someone else was.  a woman who i'd never seen before, asking for work, and seeming to struggle with accepting my answer of 'we don't have any work for you right now'.

the need goes on and on.  and while i briefly envisioned screening in our porch with locking screened doors, i realized that i'm pretty sure that is not what Jesus would do.  because He did the opposite.  He hung out with the need and wasn't afraid to face it.  He even searched for it, He called out to it, He kept His heart soft.  He loved. for Him every interaction was an opportunity for people to feel loved, and to help people know God.  and the circle completes because i am in need.  in need of Him who searches to help me keep my eyes open, my windows down, my heart open, and to continue asking the hard questions- instead of slapping on easy answers.  to let go of resentment, to let go of guilt, and annoyed, and sad.  so there is room to just love.

who am i

this week at the boys school it's ugandan cultural week.  the kids are learning about what it means to be ugandan.  they are supposed to wear ugandan clothes or colors, interview ugandan adults and learn facts about uganda.  jude came home feeling jipped because he's only been here for 6 weeks and so he doesn't know that much about it.  "but mommy, some of the kids have been here for years! they know everything about uganda!"

it's a funny thing- culture.  who you are in one place is not exactly who you are in another place- or how you are perceived in one culture can be very different than another cultures perception of you- despite the same voice, haircut, outfit.

i remember distinctly my cultural identity crisis while living in costa rica for 5 months.  i showed up with my 1990's short haircut, willowy short skirts, skinny legs and clunky black doc martins.  and despite being with mostly americans in my exchange program, i quickly became aware that my new england identity was absolutely not "tican".  and after a few weeks- i knew i didn't fit in.  but what was surprising, was that i cared.  i really cared.  i wanted my hair to grow and to gain some weight and to buy tapered jeans with zippers.  i wanted to look good in costa rican terms.

let me pause because identity has time boundaries.  i mean when you visit somewhere- your identity there is as a visitor.  the clothes brought tend to be functional, the shoes comfortable, the choices practical.  your identity remains firmly, in your own culture, which for me is as an american.  and even if i try to 'fit in' or to not appear as a tourist, i'm okay with it.

moving to uganda was another opportunity for a cultural identity crisis.  when we packed up to move, i was admittedly very practical in what i brought.  i remembered the unpaved roads, the lack of sidewalks, the rain and the dust.  i remembered being hot, but also needing to think about culturally appropriate summer wear- ie: not running around in short cut-offs.  i paused to think about how american women are often perceived in non-western cultures.  i even paused to consider my title- "missionary"- which connotes long dresses or skirts, button down blouses (all hand-me-downs of course), no make up, hair in a bun.  i went through my closet and i purged.  and i wrote about it- parting with items of identity- the faux-fur vest, the silvery velvet plush cropped jacket, a chocolate brown twist dress, tall black boots, a miniskirt.  little pieces of glam that i loved to wear.  i didn't go out and buy new stuff, i didn't search for missionary-esque hand-me-downs, but i did try to pack wisely, non-ostentatiously, thoughtfully.

2 weeks after landing in uganda, i felt that feeling again.  that cultural identity crisis.  we were driving into town and i was looking around at my new 'home', my new where-abouts and i was seeing that ugandan's like to look good.  they like to dress up; hair done, heels on and they like things that sparkle. even on sidewalk-less dirt roads they look good- even with no electricity they look good. i was going to town in my jeans and flip-flops, hair thrown up in a bun.  not only that, but as i caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror, i saw sun spots and wrinkles and some gray hair.  i was feeling old and like i'd let myself go.  i was feeling like 40 had caught up with me.  and i wasn't liking any of it.  so i re- assembled my hairdo in the side mirror and fished around in my bag and applied the 'rich red' lip gloss my sister had given me before we moved and thought about the cutest outfit i could put together with the clothes i'd brought.

then i shared my sentiments with mike- more in a monologue than a conversation- but still, i'd expressed how i was feeling.

i think mike, who was driving, responded with "you look great."  or "i don't know what you're talking about" after a quick glance my way.  then a moment later he looked back at me.  "did you drink some juice?  i think you have some pinkish orangish stuff on your mouth."

now guys- if your 40 year old wife tells you she feels like she's not all that- if she is feeling like she's reached the peak and is now on the other side- it's time for massive affirmation. it's time to pull out the stops and even if you have to, lie to her, just do it. don't mistake her lip gloss for a juice spill.

by the time we got home i needed to talk about all this- about this more superficial side of our move.  i was frustrated by my self limited wardrobe options, and my lack of ability to either be just who i am or to really think about how most people dress in the capital cities of most of the world, and not be so worried about it. 

but the other part of all this was a sudden awareness - that nobody really cares.  nobody is looking.  nobody is noticing what the heck i have on, or whether i'm wearing lipstick or drank an orange juice sloppily.  here i'm a distinct minority-i belong to a bizarrely invisible - but completely non-anonymous group.  i am a muzungu.  i stand out - just because of my pale skin. i get stared at because i'm so obviously a foreigner. 

so i'm finding that place of identity again.  i'm an american who has moved to uganda

today it was cool after a night of rain and i abandoned my flip flops, dug in the back of my closet and found my silver scaled mermaid wedge heels that had yet to experience the red dirt.  i grabbed my '60's retro 3/4 length sleeve jacket and an over-sized pageboy hat, reapplied the lip gloss and headed out the door- feeling much more like me.

figuring it out

you know you're not in atlanta anymore when a really good night is being able to hand wash the dinner dishes with the kitchen light on and not by candle light.  and a really good morning is getting to sit outside and have wireless internet- that actually works.... for now.

it's funny how much it feels like we've gone back in time.  having to do things at a random time because the thing you need happens to be available at that moment- like taking a shower in the middle of the day because there happens to be hot water and there might not be in the morning- or having toast because the electricity is on and the toaster will work. it's a weird combination of living in the moment and planning ahead.  you forget how long life takes- just the living of it.  the washing and the brushing and the cooking of it.  i re-use the kids plates because we don't have a dishwasher, i stain wash the kids clothes instead of re-washing them because we don't have a washing machine. 

this saturday mike went in to town to get some bookcases and some food and he was gone all afternoon from lunch until dinner.  i was home all day with the kids milling around and it felt like 'little house on the praire' i was ma wondering when pa would get back from town with the bare necessities.

i'm trying to sit out here and write and it's hard- there are a million distractions- the kids running in and out- random ugandans stopping by to ask for work.  i am ready to get into a routine- to get the kids into school- to start zoe's school- to begin work- to begin to teach.  things that will remind me more acutely of why we are here washing dishes in the dark.

yesterday afternoon a boy we'd seen at the playground a few days before, stopped by.  well, he didn't really stop by- he appeared in the yard and was just hanging around.  there were several kids playing on the porch and he stood off to the side watching.  i wasn't sure what was up.  i said "hi" and then i walked to the store for milk.  when i got back he was inside the house playing with zoe while her two friends played outside.  it was only weird because he's thirteen and she likes to play dolls and as usual she was telling him all about amercian girl dolls, which i'm not sure he was interested in except perhaps the novelty of it.    i jumped in to bail him out by asking if he spoke luganda and would teach me some words- and he did.  i also asked him a bunch of questions like where he lived and who he lived with and all that- and his answers changed a bit- so i'm not sure exactly what his story is- but he was nice and very happy to be at our house and i learned several new words. 

but, i was a little bit uncomfortable.  i felt a little bit like i had in the market that day i was buying baskets.  i wasn't sure what was culturally appropriate- or if i should even be thinking about cultural appropriateness.  maybe it was just as simple as it looked.  a boy, a bit older than my kids, coming over to play.  done.  but maybe i was setting up some sort of precedent.  the muzungu who welcomes random children in to play and have snacks and hang out.  or maybe just for him- this would become his new hang out- maybe everyday after school he'll show up and want to come in and hang out.  what is the culturally correct thing to do?  what assumptions are being made?  i also realized that i don't know anything about him or his family.  maybe he's a street kid- maybe he steals things- maybe he scopes places out and someone else comes back to steal things.  i hated that i had all these competing thoughts.

the kids all decided to go to someone else's house to play whiffle ball and he went too and i thought that was the end of it.  phew.  i'd figure it all out later- i guess it was all fine after all and i set out to make a new julia child gluten-free brownie recipe with coco instead of chocolate. 

but after an hour or so, my kids came home for dinner - and so did the boy.  then things got a bit confusing.  the lore was that he was having dinner with us- but who had invited him and how it had been decided was unclear.  he thought i'd invited him- jude said, daddy said it was ok- but to double check with me.  it was getting dark- i didn't actually plan on him eating and didn't make enough food- but said i guess it's fine- but inside i had that feeling.  i had the feeling like something wasn't right- like i'd messed up somewhere- i'd given the wrong impression- i'd crossed some cultural line and i wasn't sure quite how to fix it.  i didn't want to say 'no'.  i didn't want to be rude.  and then there is the whole 'we have more than he does so we should' thing.  how would it 'look' to send him home, but if anyone had come for dinner it wouldn't have been a good night.

it was getting late, our boys were in the bath and mike said the visiting boy needed to go home- we didn't know him- we'd just met him and maybe another time after we get to know him better he could join us for dinner.  then he pulled me aside and gave me the talk about communication and cultural appropriateness and saying "no" first.

but i was feeling befuddled.

i know there's not a right or a wrong answer- it's just feeling your way along in a new place where we are foreigners and learning what we are comfortable with.  it's funny how all these feel new again.  finding the balance between thinking but not over-thinking things.  listening to your gut, but making sure your gut didn't just eat something funky.  learning to trust new instincts- it's ok to pay more- it's ok to say 'no'. 

today when i came home from my first drive EVER on the left side of the road, there was my young friend- on our porch playing with zoe. 

'oli otya!' he said to me.  (how are you?)
'gende' i said.  (i am fine.)
he smiled his beautiful smile.
no harm done i guess.