Reflections Series [1]...

Well... in just a few days, I'll load my American sized* allotment of luggage into the car and head to the airport. This week has more or less been designated to packing and taking care of all the loose ends around here. I think that in order to avoid really accomplishing anything (such as organizing my luggage), I have just sat around on my computer finding funny new websites that take my mind off of things, as well as reading back over some older stuff I wrote on here.

You would think that with all this extra time to kill, I would be throwing tons of new posts up here for you guys to read about what's going on. But, honestly, I'm just kinda not feeling all that creative, and uninspired to write.

However, as I read through some of the things that I wrote early on in my time here, it was really cool to remember what I was thinking then. Some of those things had already entered that part of my long-term memory that doesn't allow things to resurface for another few years. I also know that since posting some things, I have new and different people that now visit my blog.**

So, I figured that for the next few days before I leave, I am going to feature an older post that I really liked for everyone to read again (or for the first time). This allows me to continue to be seemingly uncreative, but still feel like I'm doing something!

Enjoy...

*Americans get considerably larger luggage allotments than any other country in the entire world. I'm convinced that this is one of the primary reasons why so many people hate us.

**If you read my blog, I want to know who you are! It's OK to be a creepy blog stalker for a few weeks or even months... but eventually you must come out and reveal yourself. So, leave some comments and let me know who you are!

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Tomatoes In Spaghetti

Friday, October 5, 2007

Tonight I sit. I sit and wonder where to begin. The depths of this culture, and the weight of its problems have just been splattered in my face like a child sneaking up behind me and squirting me in the eyes with a water pistol. No warning. Completely caught off guard. I find myself blinded by the very thing I'm attempting to wrap my head around.

Disillusioned. I feel a bit disillusioned about what is really happening around me. I guess when it all comes at you at once, you just kind of throw up both fists and close your eyes. I read all these books and do my best to be an activist when I'm in the US, but when I get here and those words on the pages are suddenly selling me tomatoes in the market, I find it hard to transfer. How do I get from ink on a page to real skin and bones with blood flowing through their veins?

I guess it's human nature. When you encounter things of such extreme magnitude, the human mind must just slip on its magical glasses that allows you to look directly at someone and not have a clue about what they live like each day. For some extremely odd reason, it is easier for me to ignore poverty over here. Did I just write that? Even in my head, it makes absolutely no sense! I don't know how I can live on the same piece of property as a man, his wife, two children and flock of chickens, and never pause to think about what he must be thinking about. What does poverty feel like? What does your stomach feel like, in the depths of you, when you are malnourished?

Terms. We love terms. We like it even more to just put a term on someone.

Orphan... A child with no parents. That's easy enough. I can sleep comfortably at night with that term. How does it feel to watch and attempt to process through your parents dieing in front of your very eyes at the age of four? It's completely out of my realm of thought. What does it feel like now, five years later, when the people taking care of you have lost interest in you? You feel like you're not human? "Do I deserve this?", you must think. "Maybe I do deserve this. Maybe I am second class."

Poverty. Apparently this term puts you under some imaginary line that we've formulated. When someone is "below the poverty line" we can easily wash out their face and chunk them in the pile with the rest of the faceless numbers that we like to strategize about. What does it feel like? What goes through your head when you know these few bites of nsima aren't going to keep your child from waking up half-way through the night screaming for more to eat? Does it seem harder to breathe when you feel the weight of all your problems stacking up on your head like water basin after water basin? Do you live in fear that at any second, you'll step on a rock, loose balance, and the water will plummet to the ground?

Poverty. We just love that word! We love to slap it on the covers of trendy magazines. Toss it around over a cup of coffee with friends. Say it oh so strategically in a campaign speech. It's just become one of those "all-American words" these days. We love that word! But, I hate what that word has done in me! Like a dusty wind, it has dried all the tears from my eyes. If it's too hard to grasp what it feels like, then I guess I just shouldn't even bother reaching.

So, I find myself at the market, starring into the eyes of a person... not a word on a page in a book on my shelf in my air-conditioned house. This is real. This person has kids, probably playing around behind the market, waiting for their mom to sell just a few more tomatoes and maybe tonight they will be able to have a nibble of chicken with their nsima. So, I look at this person. What do I see? I see a blur. They are talking, but I simply hear words. I'm thinking about two things... tomatoes and kwacha (money). Surely 15 cents is entirely too much for four tomatoes, I must get her down to 12 cents. So... I do. And I walk home with my bags full of vegetables and my pockets full of kwacha... and I make spaghetti.

What did tomato lady do tonight? You think that even passed through my mind? She lives over in that distant place called "poverty". At some point I will devise a cure-all program for her and all the rest of her faceless friends. But, for tonight... there's spaghetti... and it tastes good!! When I'm done with that, I'll make some tea, grab a book and read a little... write in my journal about that place called "poverty" and then mosey on to bed. Of course, not before a nice bath at just the right temperature.

Man... that spaghetti sure was good!