Perfidy and Forgiveness

My favorite book of all time is about a tiny mouse named Despereaux. At one point in the story, covered in oil and a coating of flour, his tail having been brutally chopped off, with a red thread tied around his neck, he faces his father. I’ve been thinking a lot about him, about this image, over the past little while. You see, I have experienced many emotions in my life-sadness, fear, joy, anger, regret, love, hopefulness, despair. But somehow I largely escaped one emotion that I suspect we all face at one time or another-perfidy.

Perfidy, my friends, is treachery. Untrustworthiness. Deceitfulness. Betrayal. Have you had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting it yet? Did it just brush past you and send a chill down your spine? Or did it shake your hand and sit down awhile and have a cup of tea in your kitchen? Did it jump out and surprise you? Or did you see it coming and hide, hoping it wouldn’t notice you cowering in the corner behind a plastic plant?

Perfidy decided its visit was long overdue, and so it came. And just to be sure I remembered its name, it came again.  

It did what perfidy does to all whom it visits. It rubbed its inky black fingers on treasured things, beautiful things. It stood between me and my memories and cast its long shadow over them. It outlined a question mark with its ashen, gnarled finger on my ability to choose wisely. And it did all of that with a mere brush in passing. It simply grazed my cheek as it drifted by.

Ultimately, perfidy did what all gauzy, black emotions do. It presented me with a choice.

You see, for all its terrible beauty, it is lacking a home. It twists around your heart and asks to stay awhile. It commiserates. It comforts, even, in its brutal way. It lays gently at first. It purrs softly about how it can protect you. It offers to carve out large swaths of space all around you. And you get to choose.

Despereaux got to choose. His father committed a terrible act of perfidy. It was no mere brushing of the cheek. Perfidy assaulted the poor little mouse with the gigantic ears. It nearly cost him his life. And yet, when he faced his father, covered in oil and flour and the weight of what was done to him, he did not choose to let the inky emotions find a home. He chose forgiveness.

Forgiveness, like all light emotions, is much less subtle than its counterpart. It is the bold choice, to be sure. Forgiveness and hope and fearlessness and all the other gold emotions are lacking silver tongues. And they are so bright, they are blinding at first. If you glance at them and then away, their afterimage will haunt the blackness around you for days. They remind you that they already have a home in your heart. They don’t need you. You need them.

“’I forgive you, Pa.’ And he said those words because he sensed that it was the only way to save his own heart, to stop it from breaking in two. Despereaux, reader, spoke those words to save himself.”

I imagine myself, covered in embarrassment and pity, with a freshly inflicted wound and a red thread tied around my wrist, facing perfidy. I look it in the eye and say, “I forgive you.” I speak these words, dear reader, to save myself.

 

 

<Please read The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo. Your heart will thank you.>

 

The Golden Snitch

When I was a teenager, a boy wrote a poem about me that compared me to a raven. Dark. Illusive. Mysterious. This is how the world perceived me, for a time. My natural reserve, my reluctance to let people in, an inner life that was completely inaccessible to others…to my fellow teenagers, these characteristics were intriguing. Appealing, even. But then, my friends, then I grew up.

These characteristics, in the harsh light of adulthood, can be seen for what they really are. Barriers. Giant walls designed to keep people out, constructed out of fear.

Ever so slowly, I’ve been chipping away at these walls, like the classic tale of a prisoner trying to escape from his cement cell with a kitchen spoon. This year, though, in this place that is perfect for uncomfortable stretching, I decided to put down the spoon and pick up the wrecking ball. I set a resolution to be more open, to be more connected, to tear down the walls, once and for all. And for the first time ever, I felt ready.

You’ve read and/or seen Harry Potter, right? Of course you have. Do you remember the golden snitch? Dumbledore gifted it to Harry, and Harry sat staring at this hard, cold little orb for many, many pages, unable to understand how to open it. No amount of force worked. He basically ended up just walking around with it in his pocket, baffled.

I saw myself holding that fluttering, tiny ball. I thought, “Okay, it’s time to open up it now, to open myself up now, to let the world see whatever is inside,” and then I turned it over and over in my hands, perplexed by how to do so.

As you well know, Harry eventually gets the golden snitch to open. “He pressed the golden metal to his lips and whispered, ‘I am about to die.’” He realized that he must die. He acknowledged it. He accepted it. The snitch opened.

The past few months have been something of a death for me, too. My desire to be perceived a certain way is slowly dying. My insistence on guarding my past, my demons, my sensitivities, and my beliefs is dying too. But most of all, my desire to protect myself from pain and misery is dying. It is nearly dead. I am killing it.

Rumi, in one quote of many that I love, said, “There’s courage involved if you want to become truth. There is a broken-open place in a lover. Where are these qualities of bravery and sharp compassion in this group? What’s the use of old and frozen thought? I want a howling hurt. This is not a treasury where gold is stored; this is for copper. We alchemists look for talent that can heat up and change. Lukewarm won’t do. Halfhearted holding back, well-enough getting by? Not here.”

I want a howling hurt. Isn’t it strange how I spent so many years trying to protect myself from hurt only to learn, in the end, that lukewarm won’t do? That to numb myself from all that is painful is to numb myself from all that is beautiful and loving and magical and good? Halfhearted holding back, well-enough getting by? Not here.

I, too, have held the orb up to my lips and whispered, “I am about to die.” I’ve acknowledged it. I’ve accepted it. And as I have, my little golden heart has cracked wide open.

 I am no longer mysterious. There is nothing more hiding in shadows. I am a vulnerable, deeply flawed person who is writhing in a howling hurt. But I am also open. Connected. Compassionate. Brave. And I love it.

 

 

 

 

Worst Day

Well, I finally did it. I opened the letter. The letter my best friend gave me just before I hopped on a plane to come to Uganda 15 months ago. I was saving it for my worst day in country and today was that day.

Strangely, my worst day in country was in a place where I have electricity and running water. HOT running water. In a place with a big, luxurious bathtub. In my home with smooth tile floors and an actual ceiling. My worst day happened with a belly full of cheddar cheese and sweet corn. As it turns out, worst days aren’t made of cockroaches and bats and candlelight bucket baths. Worst days aren’t about being called “Muzungu” a hundred times and being cat-called by motorcycle drivers. Worst days aren’t even about eating eggs for dinner AGAIN or running out of gas to boil yourself some drinking water. Instead, worst days are about the things that happen in your head.

One of my favorite things to see in Uganda is people digging in their fields. Granted, it doesn’t sound idyllic, but it’s a thing of beauty. Imagine a lone, wrinkled woman with her hair wrapped in a red cloth, bright green banana trees all around her, and rolling green hills behind her. She lifts a heavy hoe above her head and it glints in the sunlight. There is a moment, one perfect moment, where the hoe stands still above her. She brings it up and it pauses, hovering in the air before coming back down again. It’s the pause that appeals to me most.

That pause, that sacred pause, is something I think about a lot. This week, this horrible week, I bought a ring with a blue stone. My blue stone reminds me to pause. To take one deep breath. To stop the flood of thoughts and feelings and doubt. Doubt about myself. About my ability. About my worth. About what I do and do not deserve. I pause, and in that moment, with the sun glinting, I know the Truth. Yes, the moment is fleeting. Yes, the thoughts come rushing back again. But I have my sacred pause.

On the blackest moment of the worst day in Uganda, I paused. I paused and I opened a sealed envelope. It was filled with pictures and stories and memories and love. It was filled with Truth about who I am and the important parts about the life I’ve lived.

I am now armed. I have my letter. I have my ring. I have my sacred pause. I have access to Truth. When the next worst day comes, I am ready.

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.