Jump

I hate diving boards. I hate them. Why would anyone actually WANT to jump off of one? To willingly get that pit in your stomach as you look over the edge of a man-made cliff? To plunge into that cold, deep water, disoriented and unable to breathe? No thank you.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I took swimming lessons as a child. Now, I can’t prove this, nor would I try, but I’m pretty sure that I was forced off of a diving board during these lessons. As in pushed off the high dive. Would someone really do such a thing? In any case, I have hated diving boards as long as I can remember. They fill me with dread. I have very few fears I still cling to, but this, my friends, this is one of them.

Not long ago, I found myself staring up at not one, but three diving platforms. I’ve never seen anything like them in Uganda, but there they were, looming over the pool on my day off from training the new volunteers. Not surprisingly, they filled me with terror and loathing, but there was something different there that was surprising. I wanted to jump off of them. Okay…wait. “Want” is not the right word. No part of me “wanted” anything to do with jumping off a high, concrete platform. But I didn’t like that I was afraid of them. I decided I didn’t want to be scared anymore and that forcing myself to jump was the best way to face that fear.

And so, I jumped. It wasn’t quick, nor was it graceful. It took me at least a solid 5 minutes to jump once I finally convinced myself to do so. I emitted a scream as I made my way awkwardly into the water, holding my nose. I shook with fear before I jumped. I shook with fear after I jumped. But I jumped. And then, I forced myself out of the water, and I jumped again. And again. And again.

I wish I could say that the fear went away, but it didn’t. It was there Every. Single. Time. But the fear did not stop me. It moved to the side. It watched me jump.

I’ve been standing on a diving board of a different sort for the last few weeks. You see, I was offered a job. The Lead Literacy Specialist for Peace Corps Uganda. It’s an amazing opportunity to design trainings and help Peace Corps volunteers be better teachers. It’s the kind of work I see myself doing long term. It’s the kind of work I love. But still, as I look over the edge of this cliff, I see myself moving two hours away from my Peace Corps family (my Linda), and away from my Ugandan family (my Rose), and away from everything I know in this country (my apple man, my egg man, my waitress, my tailor, my taxi drivers), and I’m scared to jump. I’m really happy here, in little Wanyange. I’ve made peace with my squeaky bats and dusty floors. I’ve fallen in love with my students, with my fellow teachers, with the rice paddies and the maize gardens in back of my house. And I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to jump.

All change feels like this, at least to me. Like standing on the high dive and looking down and having your stomach lurch with fear at what’s in the water and how deep is the water and how hard will you hit going down.

I’ve been lucky so far. Unlike when I was a kid taking swimming lessons, I haven’t been forced to jump. I think everyone is forced to jump at one time or another. You get a catastrophic illness. Someone close to you suddenly dies. And there you are, on the diving board with a sword to your back being forced to walk the plank. Sometimes, you don’t get to choose whether or not you jump and your life changes. Sometimes the choice is made for you.

But this time, this day, I get to choose. I get to choose if I stay where I am, where it is comfortable, or if I jump. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, that I will make a decision like this. In the past, it’s taken me years just to approach the ladder and begin climbing. I’ve even changed my mind mid-jump before and clung to the platform, my legs dangling off the edge, until my fatigued fingers gave out and I fell painfully into change. But all of this practice is helping. Yes, the fear is still there Every. Single. Time. But tonight, on my last night in my blissful little house before I move, I’m jumping anyway. The fear is there, but it doesn’t stop me anymore. It moves aside. It watches me jump.

 

525,600 Minutes

One year. I’ve lived in Uganda for one full year.

This week, I got to celebrate the introduction ceremony and wedding of a fellow teacher, Frank. The introduction ceremony, where the groom is officially introduced to his in-laws, is a very formal affair filled with tradition and ritual.

On the day of the introduction, the women at my school looked me up and down and asked in a skeptical tone, “Are you ready?” They spoke in Lusoga about my scruffy sandals, my scruffy hair, the unsightly Ace bandage on my ankle from my spill down some stairs on Halloween. Mostly they fussed over the fact that I had nothing to wear.

It’s tradition for all married women (or, in my case, women of a certain age) to wear a gomezi to these formal events. The gomezi is a strange throw-back to, I don’t know, the 1800s? It looks Victorian and, honestly, kind of ridiculous to unaccustomed American eyes. It takes shoulder pads to a whole new level with pointed, winged tips rising to the height of your cheekbones on both sides. A good 30 pounds are added to the hips thanks to a heavy cloth worn underneath the outer robe. A thick belt, made stiff with paper inside of it, is tied in a giant square knot around the waist.

I don’t have my own gomezi, so I found myself being placed in a borrowed one on the day of the introduction. I stood, arms in the air, in the small, dark office of my head mistress while my fellow teachers fussed and preened and wrapped me in cloth like a sausage. The whole process took upwards of 30 minutes, and I felt like a bride on her wedding day with not one mother, but ten. When they were finished, and after being not-so-subtly clucked at to change my shoes, pull my hair up, and put on earrings and lipstick, I felt...beautiful.

To anyone who has seen gomezis, this feeling beautiful is nothing short of miraculous. First of all, I never feel beautiful in Uganda in the first place. The constant sheen of sunscreen, the dust and dirt and sweat, the hand-washed clothes that never feel quite clean, it all leads to a ratio of feeling pretty days to feeling hideous days at a rate of about 1:90. Then you add the gomezi. When I first arrived in country, I swore up and down that I’d never be caught dead in one of those dresses. Never buying one. Never wearing one. No way. No how. But there I was, in all of my rayon-ed, glittered glory, and I. Felt. Stunning.

It was in that moment that I realized, for the first time, that I am finally integrated. That this is home. If feeling beautiful in a gomezi is not a sign of cultural integration, I just don’t know what is. And yes, the ceremony was in local language, and no, I did not understand 98% of it. And yes, I was annoyed at waiting 3 hours for the event to start, and no, I didn’t care for the food. But still. I felt happy. I felt loved.

And so marks my one year anniversary.

Raise your glass with me, will you? Raise your glass to a culture who really thinks and acts like a community. To women and men holding babies in church who are not their own, but who need to be held. To conductors on taxis who get out of the taxi to hold the hands of young children, strangers, as they cross a busy street, even though time is money. To people who go to the home of a grieving mother who lost her child and take turns sitting with her in silence, day and night.

Raise your glass with me to a culture who cares about people above all else. To people who courteously greet friends and strangers alike. To people who put other people before any task.  

Cheers, Uganda! It’s been a great year.

 

Traditional male clothing.

The groom's family line up and go under an arch where the
bride's family is waiting to receive them.

Groups of the bride's family members kneel before the groom's family and
pay them compliments and welcome them to the family. They are then given
gifts. This group, dressed up like nurses, each got a comb.

My corsage  (made out of ribbon).

This group of nieces were given sunglasses. The bride's parents are
also presented with cows, sheep and other livestock as well as monetary
gifts. Ugandans consider this bride price a way to show honor and
respect to their in-laws.



The glorious gomezi and an adorable on-looker.




 

A group of local children watch the introduction ceremony from across the street.

Me and Rose posing in our "sheds" as we move
to the wedding reception. The church wedding and
reception are the day after the introduction ceremony.

Friends enjoying the reception.

The bride and groom cut the cake and then the bride kneels before
her husband to feed him a piece of cake. He also feeds her from a chair and
they both give each other a drink. Normally they drink champagne,
but this couple doesn't drink alcohol so they are drinking Fanta. The
bride then goes around the room kneeling in front of different groups
of people and offering them a bite of cake.

Most couples are wed traditionally (meaning they live together and
have children) many years before the introduction and wedding
 ceremonies because of the high cost of the formal events. Frank &
Mary have been traditionally married for 7 years and already have
4 children together.

Food at the introduction ceremony. The food at the reception was
a full buffet with rice, sweet potatoes, boiled beef, cabbage and
matooke. I should have saved this plastic fork because we ate with
our hands at the reception and I have yet to master the art of
eating rice with my natural fork.
 

The wedding cake.




Best angle for viewing gomezi sleeves.




 

When Your Trash Can is Filled with Maggots

When you take the lid off your trash can and it’s a swimming carpet of tiny, white maggots, you know one thing is for certain: THEY ARE GOING TO GET ON YOU. It doesn’t matter how careful you are, how far you hold that can away from your body with only two disdainful fingers and an upturned nose…they are coming for you.

Sure, you can try it. Go ahead. Sit on your front porch just staring at them writhing while you rest your head in your hands and sigh. Pout. Close your eyes and imagine a friendly neighbor ambling by, wanting nothing more than to clean your trash can for you. Picture an aimless youth anxiously looking for a service project. He suddenly looks up and POW! There you and your maggots are, just waiting to be served. Enjoy your daydreams. But know that when your eyes open, they will still be there, nature’s dreaded, undulating, albino decomposers.

Tempted to argue? I understand the urge. But rest assured that the maggots will not listen to your well-formed logic as to why they should leave. “Sure,” they think, “it’s nice outside, but this green plastic is just so TEMPTING.” And no, adopting the nasally voice of a five year old and repeatedly whining, “But I don’t waaaaant to clean up maggots” will not change the reality of what you must do. It just won’t.

In the end, the tantrums finally give way to a reluctant acceptance of what must be, and you will arm yourself with gloves and bleach and a jerry can full of water. You will put on a brave face. You are a PEACE CORPS VOLUNTEER. You are a SURVIVOR. You can handle ANYTHING. You are NOT DISGUSTED BY MAGGOTS. And when the water from your assault splashes and with it hundreds of maggots hit the top of your exposed, bare foot, you will pretend that it’s okay. Yes, you’ll squeal. And yes, you’ll brush them off with speed and ferocity you didn’t know you were capable of. But you’ll clean that darn trash can until it sparkles. Did they come for you? Ohhhh, yes. They came. They came in full force. They gave it all they had. But in the end the score is Steph:1, Maggots: dead.

 

 

 

 

Shake It Off

A lot has been written about waiting. We wait to become the perfect version of ourselves. To find true love. To get our dream job. For something, anything to happen.

A lot of waiting happens in the Peace Corps, too. It begins with a lengthy application process and upwards of a year or more of waiting to be accepted. Then we wait for the myriad test results to come back from the doctor, giving us a clean bill of health to travel overseas. We wait for background checks and visas, passport photos and vaccination appointments. But all of this waiting is nothing compared to the waiting when the plane touches down, at last, in your country of service.

Things are great, but things are terrible (you see, all grand adventures have at least a pinch of both). Sure, you’re sharing a room with five other people and there’s no water to be found and volunteers are dropping left and right from dysentery and giardia, but just wait! It will be over soon. And yes, you haven’t slept well in days and there are cockroaches climbing all over your clothes and you’re sweating like a fat man in a sauna, but just wait! Training will end. You’ll get your own place. Things will get better.

And things do, my friend, get better. They get much, much better. Your grand adventure becomes less and less about surviving and more and more about thriving. You snuggle right into your new, happy life and find great comfort and joy in it. But still, even then, the waiting continues. This is because waiting isn’t tied to misery or contentment. Waiting just is.

Everyone experiences waiting every single day. But waiting in Uganda becomes an art form. You wait hours for a taxi to fill while your much-too-heavy backpack presses into your lap and your knees press into the metal bar in front of you. You wait for lengthy faculty meetings held in 90% local language to end. You wait for 6 hours for your first cake to bake on the sigiri. You wait 10 months for your house to be wired for electricity. You wait, anxiously, for your paycheck to FINALLY COME. You wait, and wait, and wait.

But contrary to what you’re probably thinking, all of this waiting is not a bad thing. In fact, I will argue that it’s one of the best things I’ve done in country. Let’s take a detour, shall we?

I recently came to the U.S. for a visit. On the way to the U.S. I experienced, in chronological order: 1) a 4 hour delay at the airport, 2) a 7 hour flight, 3) a 3 hour layover, 4) a two hour delay, 5) an additional two hour delay on the airplane and without air conditioning, 6) being deplaned, 7) a two hour wait in a line to get a voucher to stay overnight. This was all before I finally got on a plane that worked and had another 8 hour flight, 5 hour layover, plus another 6 hour flight. Can I get a what, what?!

Ah, but this isn’t all! On the way back from the U.S. to Uganda I experienced, in chronological order: 1) a 6 hour flight, 2) a 5 hour layover, 3) a 2 hour delay on the airplane while someone was arrested for bringing a knife on board followed by 4) another 3 hour delay due to a mechanical malfunction, 5) being deplaned, 6) a 1 hour wait in line to get a voucher to stay overnight, 7) an 8 hour wait after being kicked out of the hotel and before the flight left, 8) an 8 hour flight, 9) a 1 hour layover, 10) a 6 hour flight, 11) a 1 hour layover, 12) a 1 hour delay to get someone in a stretcher on board, 13) a 2 hour flight, and 14) luggage lost for days.

Now, if you stuck with me through those lists upon lists of tragically comic delays or maybe even tried to do the math, you discovered that waiting I did. Boy, oh boy did I wait! But here’s the thing…I DIDN’T GET ANGRY. I’m not lying to you. Unlike the Spanish woman who got hauled off by the police for angrily and repeatedly yelling at the flight attendants, unlike the hundreds of people sighing loudly and arguing with veritable steam coming out of their reddened ears, I didn’t get mad. Instead, I simply waited.

At one point, when the masses on the return flight home were their closest to grabbing pitchforks and storming the castle, I stood in the aisle, turned up my music, and danced. Literally. I smiled and danced to none other than Ms. Swift. “But the people gonna yell, yell, yell, yell, yell and the babies gonna cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, but I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, baby. Shake it off! Shake, shake it off!” I sang in my head. (Don’t judge. You know you secretly love that song.)

And that, my friends, is the beauty of knowing how to wait. The art of accepting what is, regardless of what you want. The art of acting instead of reacting. The glorious art of waiting.

I can feel this art slowly transferring to the other areas of my life too, the ones that really matter. None of us can escape the really hard kind of waiting. I know people who are waiting to finally feel at home somewhere or with someone. People who are waiting to get pregnant after years of trying. People who are waiting to heal after experiencing life-changing grief. People who are waiting for sick loved ones to get better. People who are waiting for themselves to be ready to change, to move, to grow. I’m waiting too…for lots of things. Lucky for me, I’ve got Ugandan-strength waiting power running through my veins. I have “acceptance of what is” stamped on my soul. So I’m just gonna wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, baby. (And when the frustrations and impatience creep up…) Shake them off! Shake, shake them off!

 

 

Would You Rather

You’ve all played the game “Would You Rather,” right? It typically goes something like, “Would you rather use sandpaper as toilet paper OR use hot sauce as eye drops?” and you choose between two ridiculously horrible options. It’s a stupid game, but one I played some version of a lot when I visited the states last month for my brother’s wedding. My version of the game was mostly in my head and went something like this: “Would you rather be at home with the people you love OR be alone in Uganda doing what you feel like you need to be doing?” It’s a tough question. Living here and doing this work is one of those decisions, like all really important decisions, that you don’t just make once. You make it again and again.

Everything, absolutely everything about being home was shocking at first. The quiet streets. The overwhelming number of choices of delicious things to eat. The scenery that looked so brown and broad. But most shocking of all were my encounters with family and friends. I expected to be peppered with questions. “Hold on just a minute,” I imagined myself saying to the crowd of people vying for my attention, “she asked me first, you’ll get your turn in a minute.” The reality was that I heard the question, “So, is the Ebola outbreak near you?” about 10,000 times and that’s about it. (The answer, if you’re wondering, is no.) With very few exceptions, people just didn’t really ask about my life. It was strange, my friends, strange indeed.

The whole thing got me thinking about that gulf that inevitably grows between people when miles or years separate them. You run into an old high school friend and ask each other inane things about what you do for a living and where you are living now, and, truth be told, neither of you really care about the answers. That’s not to say that you don’t care about THEM, but where do you even begin? How do you ask the questions that matter to someone you haven’t spoken to in years? The whole thing feels forced, because, well, it IS forced, so oftentimes it’s easier to say nothing, to just duck behind the grocery store display and wait for him to pass.

The trouble with doing something like serving in the Peace Corps is that you NEED to talk about it. Desperately. It’s this monumentally huge life change. And all of us, even the quiet ones, need to talk about the big stuff. The stuff that alters the way we look at the world and the way we look at ourselves. And questions about Ebola, while topical, just aren’t going to cut it.

So, what’s to be done about this? I have no idea, but for me, this blog is a good place to start. I get to feel a little bit heard, even though no one may be listening. It’s kind of like yelling into a canyon. Even if no one is there to hear you, you hear your echo and it’s kind of comforting.

In the end, I decided again (as I knew I would) to come back to Uganda. Surprisingly, it genuinely feels like home here. I mean sure, the minute I set foot on Ugandan soil I turn into Charlie Brown’s friend Pig-Pen. But when given a choice of “Would you rather feel understood by others or better understand yourself?” I choose the latter.

Steph in Uganda

Steph in the U.S.