Day 16: Oh to have the heart of a child.

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9:15 p.m.

The morning was chilly and beautiful. The sun doesn’t take days off here. Not even periodically. It’s loyal to its South Africans, and we reap those benefits.

We met, four of us, outside the house of our coordinator and waited for our taxi bus to pick us up and take us to our destination. I was to be accompanied all day by Matt, Carmen and Dani.

Sleepily we entered the bus when it arrived, with morning stiffness in my joints. We sat, mostly quietly, save for a few words about nothing really. We drove through town, past neighborhoods of all calibers – grandiose houses with balconies wrapped around, one bedroom brick boxes with small yards in the back, and tin shacks by the hundreds lined only feet apart.

We entered the township called Mamelodi, where children of all ages everywhere, in different uniforms, walked their morning routine trek to school in bunches. Babies held the hands of their older guides. Girls chatted with eager gestures. Young boys ran to see who could be first. Others marched diligently onward.
I watched them all through the window and wished silently that they were coming to my classroom. (I want so badly to be a teacher).


We winded through the streets of Mamelodi, through neighborhoods and busy roads. We pulled into a suburban area, where the schools were located. The children were playing outside in the schoolyard, not yet ready to take their classroom seats. We drove past an elementary school, where tiny children were playing with one another, and Matt and I hoped that was our destination.

I literally couldn’t suppress a squeal of joy when we pulled into that very elementary school. My moments of giddiness – real giddiness – are few and far between. But children evoke the child in me, and I let a squeal fly out of my mouth like a trapped bird set free.

The road became dirt as we drove up to the school.

Tiny happy hands greeted us as we stepped out of the bus. We were the instant spectacle of these precious, tiny people. With sideways smiles and bashful eyes, they each waved at us as they saw us. There were tons of them swimming around the school yard like excited tadpoles. From four years old to fourteen, beautiful children clad in black and green uniforms looked upon us and sent bashful or bold greetings our way. From yards away, children stopped to watch our every move with curious smiles displayed on their faces.

We had been informed to look for Mr. T. Mr. T would tell us where to go and what to do. But only children surrounded us. We walked through the main entrance into the courtyard, surrounded by classrooms. Children were running, shouting, leaping, laughing all around us.

I walked toward a patch of little boys, no older than second grade. And I bent down to tell them hello and if they knew where Mr. T was. They didn’t hear a word I said, even though they had gathered right up to my face so that precious big brown eyes stared at me like I was a talking animal. They hugged me. They held out their hands to shake my hands – all four or five at the same time.

“Hi! Do you know where Mr. T is?”

They spoke in some other tongue with one another, and reached out to touch me.

Oh dear God, my heart was about to burst. I fell so in love so instantly!

I ignored the question of where Mr. T was and proceeded to make tiny new friends. We shared a mutual fascination with each other. It was glorious.


Eventually, we found Mr. T, who showed us our project. He took us to the seventh grade classroom and instructed us on what painting needed to be done in it. Seven or eight of the seventh grade students had come to have a hand in the painting of their classroom.

The first coat had already been done; we were instructed to do only touchups.

While we painted, we made friends.
Rendy was my instant companion. She had a beautiful complexion and a becoming confidence. She had an adorable smile of straight white teeth. And she had a sweet voice.

We took an hour to finish painting. Matt, Carmen, Dani and I painted our hands and stamped them on the wall. Some of the children began painting a cloud and a sun.

Rendy spent fifteen minutes cleaning the paint off of each of my hands with a paint-stroked cloth and turpentine. We got to know each other in the meantime. She’s twelve. She’s an only child, so she gets whatever she wants. She doesn’t want any siblings, because then her parents would have to ask them what they want. And she definitely doesn’t want a sister, because that would be boring. Her favorite subject is math, but she’s “clever in English, too.” Rendy wants to be a doctor, and she forgot the name of the university she wants to attend. She’s sweet-natured and caring, asking me if her rubbing hurts. And she doesn’t leave a single spot of paint on my hands or forearms.

She shows me where the faucet is outside, where we can wash our hands. She, Bethaline and I make our way to the other side of the schoolyard. The maintenance man meets us, clad in a huge gap-toothed smile and blue uniform. His English is broken, but his grin is enough to understand that this man is too sweet. He exerts kindness and good-heartedness. He tells us to wait so he can bring the soap.

Only minutes later he comes whistling toward us with a bucket of powdery soap. He shows us how to take it out, rub our hands and wash it off. And when we finish, we thank him dearly, and he smiles and sings himself off to his next task.

Rendy asks me my name again, and I tell her. She decides instantly that she won’t remember it, so I tell her she can just call me B. But she declines and tells me that she’ll just call me Mommy. And she does, and I don’t mind. In fact, I love it.

We don’t want to do the painting anymore. We want to play with kids. We sit outside on the porch, beneath the morning sun. Rendy plays with my hair and gives me a fabulous braided doo, and then she moves on to Carmen, who also receives a fabulous doo.

Younger kids are playing in the courtyard, waving to us and running around. I can’t take it anymore, so I go, bringing gifts of photography, to the kids. I show them my camera, show them what it can do, show them their faces on my screen, and they suddenly can’t get enough. We take pictures together, they ask for picture upon picture upon picture of themselves. They hug me, they high-five me, they hold my hand.


Our seventh grade friends are equally fascinated by the camera. They take turns taking pictures after my detailed tutorial on how to do so. They ask to take pictures with everyone around them, and then they ask to see the result. They jump on every opportunity to take our pictures – and several mistakes or duds later, they do.

Our seventh grade friends take us around the campus and into the computer lab. Rendy leads me to a computer and sits next to me, and she tells me what games I should play. We sit for a while, playing games, comparing scores, laughing. We’re just being kids.


And then lunchtime comes.

Which means the kids come out of their rooms.

I love every child that I see. They think we are the weirdest, greatest, strangest, coolest things they’ve ever seen. From far away and from up close, they watch us and observe what we do and say. They don’t know what to do with themselves but display a huge smile and wave when we wave first at them. They are too good to be true.

And they all love a camera.

We sit on the ledge of the garden, overlooking the front schoolyard. The kids all around are eating their lunches or playing and running around.

A group of little girls and a few little boys nab my attention by giggling and trying to tell me something in a different language. What they want to say is that these two boys want to show me how they can dance. So I urge them to dance – but not until I set up my camera to record it.

On my cue, camera ready, they begin their quick-step tango – beautifully executed. The other children and I cheer them on, while they perform for us twice in a row. They laugh at the video, all ten heads crowded round to watch it. And then they all demand that their pictures be taken.

I am their photographer. I take pictures of their beautiful, shining, beaming, mischievous or shy faces. I tell them to smile, I tell them to give me their funniest face, and I tell them to just do whatever.

I take individual pictures with the sweet ones too bashful to demand. And when I request a photo with some of them, ten more of them jump in.

I tell them to line up, as straight as can be, and they are like soldiers. One dominant boy finds his spot in the front and shoves the others into the line, demanding that they make it straight. Frenziedly the kids find a spot in the line as I watch bemusedly. When they’ve created a line, facing me at the head, I tell them to turn shoulder to shoulder. They’re quiet as circumstances permit, and I tell them that I’m going to take pictures of them but that they have to give me their BEST, PRETTIEST SMILE EVER.

So I take my camera down the line and I call for their BEST, PRETTIEST SMILE EVER, four at a time. And then I commend them on their beauty as I pass. Once their photo is taken, they jump out of line and back into line at the back. Their hands are everywhere – an attempt to get just one part of themselves in the camera. Two tiny ones at the very end are too precious to not give extra attention. I bend down to them and shake each of their baby hands. And I tell everyone to let them have their own picture. Dear lord, I am in love.

I put my camera away and go down to sit at the ledge. A herd of children follows me. They are surrounding me. The two littlest ones, whose hands I held on the way to my perch, are in my arms and on my lap. Other little girls hold onto my arm. Everyone else stands around me to look at me with eager and fascinated eyes. I ask them their names and do my best to pronounce them. They are proud when I ask them each individually. Their hands reach out to touch me – especially my hair. One pats and rubs my head, and another one follows. Several, in turn, pat my head. One boy remains at my side, stroking my pony tail. I laugh and ask him if he likes my hair, and he responds very deliberately that he does.

I turn my attention to the little ones, who don’t say much, but have a look of adoration and admiration in their sweet faces. I hold up four fingers and ask them each in turn if they are four years old. They hold up four fingers and nod shyly with little smiles twisting the corners of their mouths. Another little one makes her way to the center, and she too is four. I hug them all, love them all, want to keep them all forever.

When lunchtime ends, our seventh grade guides take us to get some ice cream. To the right of the schoolyard, small vendors have been set up, selling sweets and snacks for one or two rand.

For the rest of the day we meander around, finding little jobs to do.

We go to the library and meet the Masters students from Rutger’s College in New Jersey. But we found them boring; they weren’t doing anything. So we parted ways and went outside to find warmth and more children. Matt and I decided that we would keep every one of them, that we absolutely adore children, and that we want to adopt tons of our own.

He and I clean paint off the supplies reluctantly. But we ditch it after a short time and go on a mission to find kids to play with. So we go and sit in the courtyard, where kids are beginning to filter out of their rooms. Sure enough, they come. They come waving, they come laughing, they come just to tell us hello or good-bye. They come to shake Matt’s hand. They come just to catch our eye.

Carmen and Dani join us on our step as we sit and watch the kids. One boy comes to us and, in a heavy accent, says he wants to play a game with us. It’s called “And Then.” So we play “And Then” for two rounds – each person says a part of the story, “and then…”, and then the next person builds onto that. We had our laughs, and we discovered that we were terrible at the game.

We eventually make our way to the front schoolyard, where more children stand around in wait for their transportation or time to go. A group of little girls dances for us and a wider audience. Other girls come randomly to hug me. Rendy finds me again to give me a warm and sad hug good-bye.

We leave them, though, with promises that we’ll come back soon.


And we will. Because now I’m attached.

Day 14 & 15: This place inspires me.

My days have been the same since last I wrote. I wake up, go to class, and spend the day alone doing things that need to be done. I’ve spent a significant many hours with myself since coming here. They were probably necessary. Back home, my time alone is limited. I don’t mind, I love the company that takes loneliness away. But it’s good to sit with yourself in quiet, with the window open and the winter air pouring in like a gentle and endearing friend.

My room is my monastery apart from my boisterous and lively house. In the day the house becomes a monastery itself. No one occupies its rooms. The wind is the only sound, the only thing coming through the door, through the windows, and sweeping through the hallways. I like it, mostly. Sometimes I crave company. All the time I crave Reston. That’s no doubt. But I’m doing a fine job at enjoying my time apart from him, knowing that I’ll soon be with him. Knowing that I won’t have to leave him for an extended amount of time like this ever again.

I walk, now, like someone who has lived here. I’ve been here for two weeks and the vacation is over. I eat my breakfast, a routine bowl of cereal. I fix a small lunch or walk down to the café. I cook dinner in the evening. In between classes, I read my books for class, write my e-mails, plan my life.

I pass by the homeless beggars on the side of the road every day, and it no longer phases me. It no longer shocks me. It no longer makes me think twice when I deny them any of my change. I’ve learned not to let my sympathy perpetuate the cycles, the lies, the poor choices.

The man who sits near our gate every single day, in a tweed blazer, slacks and a beanie no longer bends my sympathy to his will. Daily, he reeks of alcohol. Daily, he asks for money to “buy some food.” I am kind with my smiles and hellos. On my way home from the café, I made the mistake of making eye contact with him and telling him hello. He jumped up like a cat in disguise ready to pounce on a sweet bird. He walked alongside me, muttering something about money and a baby.

“You have a baby?” I asked, knowing this to be a lie.

“Yes – yes! Small baby!” He showed me with his hands.

“Where is this baby?” He paused for half a second before he told me she was in the hospital. He needs money to eat, he tells me, using sign language to ensure I understood him.

My heart is broken for this drunken alcoholic, homeless man. He lies to me. Alcohol lingers in the air after he speaks. He sits on a curbside, begging passersby, among a collection of beer cans and other trash. He has done nothing for himself. He won’t do anything for himself. But he expects me to do it for him. He’ll spend my money on nothing honorable. He is decaying by the day, a burden on society.

But still, with genuine sympathy in my voice, I lie back to him and tell him I have no money to give him. Of course I hate when he kindly, and even respectfully, gives up his begging and goes back to his trashed perch. I hate that I know better what he needs than he himself knows. I hate to send him on dejected. Isn’t that all he’s ever known, really? I want to invite him over for dinner. I want to ask him how he got where he is today. I want to ask him why he lies, why he drinks, why he begs on a corner day after day after day.

He could tell me a thousand lies, every day, but I still will be sad for him and never angry. He could make a lie about a baby he doesn’t have. I will be sad for him.

~|~

I came in contact with Lexy, my half-sister. I debated whether or not I would answer her message. It was days before I ever did. But it was necessary to respond. She was seeking me out. And hadn’t I looked for her before but couldn’t find her? She found me, and here she was. ANOTHER SISTER.

I can’t really explain how happy I am that I found her.

If my relationship with Lexy is a detriment to my newfound relationship with Andy, I’ll take matters into my own hands to ensure that we both successfully maintain both relationships. I think Andy is at a stage in his life where he’s ready to listen. He’s ready to hear what I have to say. He’s ready to be something like a parent in some senses, and a pupil in others. And I’m at the stage where I can be a diplomat and I can be a teacher.

Lexy needs to have someone with ambition in her life. I want my ambition and drive and dreams to be contagious. I want her to have those. I want her to have those as much as I want my baby sisters to have those. This need for her to dream and be whatever she wants to be is so potent and so instant, that I can only attribute it to that automatic bond that sisters have. It’s an inspiring bond. It’s a beautiful bond. It’s a bond unlike any other. She is my sister. She is going to be in my life for the rest my life, whether either of us likes it or not. She’s my little sister. I am her protectorate, her defender, her ally – everything she could ever need. We share nationalities; only finally have we sent ambassadors over to create a coalition. I couldn’t be more ecstatic about what results will come about.

This is going to be a great chapter – in both of our lives.

There’s just nothing like a sister.

~|~

I miss my sisters. I should write them each a letter. I should spend more time with them when I’m back at home. I should be there for them more. I need to be. I am the luckiest person in the world to have the opportunity to be the older sister of three beautiful, golden girls. God, I love them. They are so great. They’re my everything. A part of me would be dead if they weren’t there to keep it alive.

I should cherish them at every stage of their lives. They’re getting ready, each of them, to transition, to fall across the thresholds between the stages of youth and childhood. These are miraculous moments in their lives – moments to be savored. My babies will never be children again. They’ll be pre-teens. They’ll be in their double-digits. And my beautiful, blossoming Brittany will never be a pre-teen again. She’ll be a full-fledged teenager soon. Dear God, she’s going to need my sound advice in the coming years more than ever before. I need to be diligent in making a connection with her, in letting her know that I’m here to reach out to.

There is no one luckier than I. I am the possessor of three of the most incredible girls this world as ever seen. They’re mine. They’ll always be mine. And we have a full life to live out together. I have a life to live before them – to test the waters and tell them what to expect. I have the ability to pave a road for them or watch them from a mountain ahead as they make their own way. I get to witness, live and in color, the story of their lives. I am who they will come to to tell of their journeys and discoveries. They’ll fall in love (and that brings a smile to my face and tears to the rim of my eyes). They’ll have their hearts broken. They’ll discover truth, and they’ll recognize lies. They’ll be twisted up in the lives of other people. They’ll be confused by life’s big and small events. They’ll stay up all night reading old notes. They’ll cry in their rooms for reasons unknown to everyone and themselves. They’ll go and see the world. They’ll find happiness in the world. They’ll touch someone’s life and awaken great change. They’ll be heroes. They’ll be teachers. They’ll learn something new every day.

And I get to be there all the way through it. I don’t want to close my eyes or turn my back for even a moment during the living of their lives. I want to be the hand that pulls them temporarily from a mess to give them instruction on how to go back in and put it back in order. I want to be the wise old smile and the nodding head when they tell me stories of love and regret. I want to provide the clues to the answers of questions I myself have had to answer. I want to encourage them, urge them, push them from their comfortable homes. I want to test them, love them, hold them, carry them, chase them until they run away screaming and determined.

I want to inspire them.

All four of them.

I take my duties seriously. I am a student, a daughter, a granddaughter, a cousin, a sister, a humanitarian, a woman, a lover, a writer. And it’s because I understand the way my life interlocks with so many other people’s lives. I have a duty and an obligation – and I have the honor – to live out my life to the best of my every ability for the sake, not only of my own fulfillment, but for my fellow humans, my mother, my grandparents, my cousins, my sisters, my love and my audience. There is a purpose I am made to serve, and I can either fulfill it or come short of fulfilling it. It isn’t just my life’s betterment that relies on me. There are people I’m made to touch, made to love, made to support, made to feed, made to understand, made to pray for, made to hold, made to cry with, made to advise, made to learn from, made to teach, made to smile at. The list is as long as the number of people I meet and know.

Our individual drives, ambitions, desires, personalities and passions testify to the fact that we each have a specified purpose. My mother was made to be a mother. She is the perfect mother. And she was made to be our mother. Our purposes may be forced upon us at an early stage of our lives, or they may be found at the end of our individual journeys. All our actions count.

It doesn’t matter how many lives you touch. God is in everyone – life is qualitatively infinitely great, no matter the quantity. There is no system to effectively measure the worth of a life. It doesn’t have worth – it’s beyond such petty scales.

What drives people to continue touching lives is the understanding that you have something to give to everyone and something to receive – whether it be more knowledge or an authentic smile in a wrinkled, worn face or a thanks in a language you don’t speak. But it is also realizing the interconnection that constitutes humanity. It is understanding that we are all unified because we’re made of the same bodily fluids and the same soulful emotions. We all bleed and we all cry. What drives people to continue touching lives is empathy, compassion, mercy – all embodied in that great thing, Love. If you know that every face you look upon is the face of your blood brother or sister – if you know love – then you can’t be stopped from giving it. Not necessarily because it makes you happy, but because you have reached the point of enlightenment that allowed you to feel the needs of other people because they, too, are your needs. They’re your needs because you’re human; but they’re your needs because they’re your brother’s or sister’s needs.

Well, that’s how I feel anyway. Everyone’s opinions and beliefs are products of their individual nature and the environments in which they’ve lived. I grew up in a family in love, and the realness of that love has infected me with a need to spread it. I need children to be fed with this love; I need schools to be built with this love; I need babies to be held with this love. This isn’t a want – love takes away wants. Love makes you need things for the sake of love itself. Real live, palpable, earnest, undeniable, genuine love is the universe’s most efficient fuel.

My life is determined to prove that.

What’s your purpose?

(Note the beauty of love without the complicated recipe of doctrine, which has been baking in an oven for the past two thousand years. If you cook a heart, it won’t beat and it won’t bleed. Love is meant to be raw. Not caked and cooked in some substance that takes away from its natural flavor and potency.)

July 28, 2010

I can’t wait to tell you about my trip to Mamelodi today. I will do so promptly when I return at 3 p.m. Yeah, right, I won’t be back by 3 p.m. If I am, that will be a miracle. All I care about is being back by 4:30 because I have a class that I have not yet gone to because a) the teacher was missing and b) I was locked out of my room and into my house for two hours. I’m probably a class behind. AND I HATE BEING BEHIND IN ANYTHING.

I quietly made myself a breakfast of runny fried eggs and yogurt with corn flakes in it. My domestication is greatly benefiting me these days. I think I’m going to make it when I’m really out on my own – making dinner every day, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, cleaning the house, etc. Of course, I will have the love of my life to enlist as my aid.

He says he’s been keeping up with his house – vacuuming, taking out the trash and whatnot. THAT IS BEAUTIFUL NEWS. I have trained him well.

It’s 7:24 in the stupid morning, and I’ve got to run…

*You should probably check for tomorrow's edition, where I will tell you about my trip to the township elementary school. Best ever.

Day Uhh...? This is where I live now.

Today, I was productive. I had class in the morning and took diligent notes. We had a diplomatic to the U.S., from South Africa, come and give a lecture. From what I could hear and understand, it was pretty interesting. I basically came to the conclusion that all developing countries leach onto the United States like parasites and suck the blood from it as much as it can. And it seems that the U.S. just…lets it happen, knowing that it’s happening.

I should probably ask what that’s all about when I get back home.

Anyway, after classes, I went to the café down the road and had a fried egg and a smoothie. The internet sucked there, so I left to go make copies of my textbook and get my internet time activated. I came back home and took a shower, did my laundry, went to see if my internet worked. I was, indeed, graced with the gift of internet. Praise Jesus. I can now talk to my boyfriend at night. That’s literally all I wanted it for, really. I could do without it otherwise.

I finished my laundry and cleaned my room. I put the clean clothes away. And now, here I am, sitting down to write.

~|~

Last night we all went out for drinks – and, of course, when I say “we” I mean they; I just watched. So we all went out to Hatfield Square, with all its pubs and bars and lounges. It’s where all the riche students of Pretoria gather to drink and stand around in the cold or have some laughs (or, in last night’s case, some cries). I don’t know what to equate it to in Norman. It’s just where everyone convenes. So we went there.

Happy Hour starts at 6 p.m. and lasts until 7. Drinks are already cheap here, but during happy hour at the Cheeky Monkey, you can get two drinks for the price of one. All the foreigners were all over that. I ordered my Sprite and the waiter looked confused and asked me if that was it. I smiled sweetly and innocently and said, Yep!

So I took my sparkling Sprite to the table with all the other girls who carried their drinks, one in each hand. I sat among them and sipped mine.

“What did you get?” they’d ask.
“Sprite!” I’d answer.
“Sprite?! Why Sprite? You don’t drink?!”
“Nope!”
“What? Why?!”
“I just never have. And I promised my boyfriend I wouldn’t.”
“What? Why?!”
“Because I made him promise me he wouldn’t.”
“What? Why?!”
“Because I don’t want him doing anything!”
“And he’ll only do something if he’s drunk? Nooooo…”
I smiled and confidently said, “Not mine.”

They were astounded.

And I was bored. I’m like the little sister of the group. I think everyone is older than me. Their interests are different – they want to drink and party, go to the mall and shop; they want to have shots and go dancing.

And I don’t.

I would love to. I would be all for it. If Reston were here. And I’m not even disappointed that I feel that way. I don’t feel tied down; I don’t feel like I’m missing out. I just want him here with me. I really, really just want him here with me.

It’s such a freaking hassle to love someone.

Things I Will Never Again Take For Granted:

1) Wireless internet – anywhere you go, any time, any place, always, forever.
2) My school’s smooth system (Yes, even OU’s system seems smooth – almost flawless – compared to that of UP).
3) Wal-Mart.
4) Police officers that actually arrest people when they commit crimes.
5) People who dress casually at school.
6) 911
7) Free, non-gated buildings.
8) The ability to carry my purse casually behind me because I know nothing’s going to happen to it.
9) 2010 technology.
10) American English; I don’t have to think twice about what it’s saying, I can just hear it and know.
11) American universities’ scheduling system: MWF, TTH, same days, same times, same places. Every time. Never fails.
12) Rice milk – in the carton.
13) PEI WEI!!!!! Kids gluten-free Pei Wei spicy on brown rice with shrimp. And iced chai-tea.
14) MEXICAN FOOD!!! Delicious tortilla chips and hot salsa with beans and rice and tortillas and fajitas and enchiladas and, and, and…
15) My shower head.
16) Heat in homes and in buildings.
17) The ability to buy used books instead of brand new ones every time.
18) American time – where people actually rush if their late.
19) Kisses from my boo.
20) Doors without barred gates.


July 25, 2010

I’m taking a lazy weekend off. Because I need one, and because I want one.

Life in Africa is different from life at home – if you didn’t notice before. It just seems slower, and it takes some getting used to for me. It’s slower, but the days pass quicker so that while I’m in the middle of it all, I really don’t know what day it is.

But it’s Sunday, I know that, and I was awoken by heavy knocks on my bedroom door. I tried to ignore it the first time, and it almost did go away. But it came back and so I got up to see who it was. It was no one – ah, but then her head poked around the corner and she asked me something about needing Band-Aids. I had no idea what she was talking about, and neither did she. So I went back to bed. But I was awoken again to an inquiry of whether I wanted to go to some museums – like, now – or just go back to bed. I chose bed, even though I probably should have chosen the museums. I just feel like sitting in the sun and reading outside, though. There’ll be plenty of time for museums.

I spent half the day sleeping yesterday and half the day cooking for our briie in the evening.

But, of course, as I was sure it would happen, I am the mother of the house, who cleans up everyone’s mess. No one likes to do their dishes, or remove their pans from the stove when they’re finished cooking. No one likes to wipe down the counter. No one really cares. So I’ve taken up the mantle of mother – because I am more my mother every year of my life – and I cleaned the kitchen completely before my day was allowed to begin.

Madison came right as I finished, and we went to the café (as usual), and I got one fried egg and a tropical smoothie (the usual). We stayed there for no more than an hour before we walked to the book store so that Madison could get a book for class. They only had one, though.

So then we made our way to the grocery store to pick up some things for each of us.

At home, we began dicing potatoes. I was my mother all day, cooking and telling Madison and Matt, who joined us later, what spices to shake onto the vegetables. We seasoned up some chicken, too. And by the time we were finished we had a poor man’s meal, wrapped in foil and ready to be put on the grill. We made seasoned potatoes, Jeanie-style. We cut up green and yellow bell peppers and onion, added mushrooms and garlic to the mix and seasoned those in olive oil, salt and pepper. And our chicken was shaken in olive oil, salt, pepper, garlic, and some chicken seasoning I bought at the store.

After, we took our foil-wrapped packages to Matt’s fridge and then went outside to read on a blanket in front of the boys’ house. Peter and Nick sat in chairs on the other side of the lawn, listening to the radio, drinking some beers and chatting. Occasionally they kicked the ball around.

Shane, the other American whom I have yet to introduce, began to prepare the grill for a fire.

So we sat around, all of us, in the warmer version of winter winter air and peace and calm.

We eventually fizzled out of our places, and dispersed around the house, busying ourselves with absolutely nothing important and nothing demanding. Nick and Peter, Deputies of the Beer Department, went out to buy some beer for the briie. Shane continued to work on the fire and take a break to kick a ball around with the little daughter of the Heads of House.

Madison and I watched Matt do the dishes. The nasty dishes that the other guys had left around, caked in crusted food. The Boys of House 15 had promised that their house wouldn’t be the anomaly on the block; but they’re hardly living up to that expectation. We critiqued the house and the general way Matthew was washing the dishes, while coming to the conclusion (though it had already been come to) that boys, guys, men – all kinds, gay, straight, whatever – are disgusting.

Around 6 or 6:30, people started showing up with their meat and other foods in hand. We soon had over 20 people gathered inside the dining room of House 15, and outside sitting around the fire on the porch. Some people sat in a circle in the grass, talking and laughing. People from beyond our gated residence came to the party. Everyone plopped their meat on the grill and people stood around, flipping them as they needed it, and dishing them out when they were ready.

The potatoes were taking too long, so I grilled them in a pan on the stove.

They were amazing.

I put them in a cooler pan when they were finished and handed them around to everyone outside. Jeanie’s Potatoes were a big hit.

And so were my pan-grilled vegetables.

Matthew tells me I’m so “domestic.” I hope to God I just take after my mother.


I love to sit back and watch happy people interact. Everyone was content, everyone was laughing, everyone was having a good time. There were no weekend demands tugging on our sleeves. There were no pressures, no cares. We were college students having a briie outside, enjoying the company of a worldly bunch.

What if the world could get along the way we do? Maybe we should all be diplomats and ambassadors. Maybe that should be a new diplomatic strategy – a bring-your-own-meat,-we’ll-provide-the-beer-and-potatoes briie.


For dessert, Jamie, the other American, bought wafer crackers, a chocolate bar and flavored marshmallows (the closest things to graham crackers, Hershey’s chocolate and regular white marshmallows). And we, the Americans, roasted those marshmallows while Jamie broke off pieces of chocolate to stick between two pieces of wafer. We created a Ford-like assembly line to make our s’mores, and we delivered them to all the foreigners. Though they weren’t the real thing, it was a taste of home for us, and we were happy.

Other dessert dishes, native to various places around the world, were passed around and eaten with swigs of beer. The Dutch girls sat against the wall of the house, smoking a Hookah while Shane played his guitar and sang them songs.

The Chinese girl, the Singaporean, the Oklahomans, some Dutch boys and the German guy stood and sat around talking about jokes from our individual countries. The Dutch tried to teach us Dutch, and we were made to look stupid trying to pronounce the “rrrr’s” and the hocks.


At around ten or so, the Dutch girls parted to enjoy the night on the town. And at around 11, Madison, Matt, Carmen and I took popcorn and a case of DVDs to my house. We popped real popcorn in the pot, salted half and sweetened the other, and brought it into my room.

The Little Mermaid took us back to yesteryear for an hour and a half. Madison, Matt and I sang with every song and admitted our fears of Ursula and her eels.


Today, I’ll spend the day in happy contentment with myself.
Tomorrow begins Week 3.

Day 8: In South Africa you can be in two places at once.

I’m behind in my days. Today is Tuesday in real life, but I’m living in Sunday still.

It’s half past three (this is the South African way of saying it’s 3:30, and it sounds like “hoff post three”). The Lion Park website said it was closed on Sundays, but Mrs. Kalmer doesn’t take no for an answer. So she, Christine, Herman and I load ourselves in the Jeep and drive down to the park.

When we enter the gates, I become a child. I am little five-year-old Brooke who is obsessed, to the point of neurosis, with The Lion King. There’s Nala and Simba and the whole lion pack! I’m squealing and running to each of the pens. There’s a cheetah pacing back and forth, right in front of me – within arm’s reach! I run to the next pen and the next: there’s Ed the hyena and Timone!

And then I am giddy when our turn to enter the lions’ pen gets nearer. Finally, we walk in. AND I GET TO PLAY WITH BABY LIONS!

Dream number two has come true. I’m 2-0: I’m in Africa and I’ve pet baby lions.

Ha! I’m still in awe.

And then, to top things off, we drive the Jeep through the lion camps and watch them during feeding time. I’ll try to upload a video of the fight between Mufasa and the other lionesses.

National Geographic should be calling me up soon.

~|~

The people of South Africa have created two worlds in their one nation. The townships that skirt the happy homes of the white people are literally a few miles down the road. In a simple car ride, we pass through the threshold that divides wealth and comfort from poverty and peril. The shift is instant – you can’t even see it coming. But when you have entered into the periphery, you know.

Townships consist of homes made from scraps – simple, one bed-room shacks with a billboard for walls and a scrap of tin as a roof. They are made one next to the other, little communities of recycled resources. There may be hundreds, there may be thousands, all gridlocked in an impoverished community. Only black people live here – there isn’t enough space or money circulating through these neighborhoods for the whites.

Fires are prevalent, and when your neighbor’s house is separated from yours by a single shared wall, when one house goes up in flames – the rest are likely to follow suit. What is there left to do after that but start from scraps again?

Jobs are obviously scarce. The people have made shops out of the same material they make their homes with. They sell fruit, they sell bags, they sell services and old tires.

The problem is that a majority of immigrants in South Africa are from neighboring, and even far away, African countries. South Africa has wealth, and the people of this continent know that. But what they don’t know or don’t understand is that the gap between the rich and poor is not only great, it’s widening. South Africa has one of the most potent stories of disparity.

When foreigners come to this nation, they are met by frustrated South Africans who suffer enough from the lack of job opportunities. As a result of this, there is hatred, prejudice, and fierce animosity.

South Africa has the ingredients for a threatening concoction. Poverty and neglected law enforcement have created a nation that is home to thefts, murderers and rapists who have no incentive to stop and no consequences to face for their crimes.

Nobody cares. Nobody can care. South Africans shrug their shoulders at statistics because there’s nothing they can do. The court system is easy to work around, and the leadership of the nation contributes to the amorality of the nation.

President Zuma allegedly raped a prostitute who had AIDS. He is reported by newspapers as having said that it was alright because he took a shower afterward. This was before he was elected. Truly, South Africa is the rape capital of the world if its own president is accused of such a sickening crime. A 2009 statistic from the Human Rights Watch shows that one out of 20 men in South Africa has raped a woman. And it happens because it goes unpunished.

Theft is the least of our worries as women.

But what created this culture? What histories parented these statistics? The people of South Africa are not born with a mindset to steal and kill and rape. No one is. So what has made so many of this nation’s people different?

All people act some way because something acted upon them in their past. Everyone has a history built into the equation that makes him him and her her.

~|~

From hot water to cold, my mind and my heart are tossed back and forth. I spent the weekend among white people, living as they do and as I do back home. But from behind car windows, I witnessed the cold reality of how so many black people live.

On our way home from the lion park, the sun was settling down. As we drove past, I watched groups of people in the valley walk together or gather together in their Sunday green or white attire. They weren’t gathered in any building. They didn’t sit in stoic pews. They did not sing along with a band. But I bet they knew everyone’s name. And I bet they were happy. And I bet they were praising God for all they had. I bet they were singing out or bowing their heads. I bet they were cold but glad to endure it for God. I bet God could see them. I bet God could hear them. I bet God was with them. I bet it was beautiful; I bet it was real. I bet it was black and hearty and raw and human. I bet they know what church is.

And I bet it’s a lot different from white church.

I was back in America again. Some hip, funky music was playing as we entered the massive, dimly lit auditorium. There were screens on either side of the colorfully-lit stage in front. We found seats near it and waited for the service to start.

The band on stage brought in the beginning. The lead singer looked like Owen Wilson with longer hair and a chubbier face. He wore real in-vogue clothes, like a brown rustic leather jacket and a purple scarf with dark jeans and square-toed loafers. His face appeared on the two screens so that all had a good view – at least, a view – of his face. He was backed by a pianist, two other guitarists, and another female singer.

The music was typical of a revived, fresh and funky Christian church trying its hardest to be untraditional (while recreating a new traditional – a new mold, a new formula – at the same time!). The songs went on for a while, getting the crowd fired up and all. Some girl came out on stage and recited some monologue about how she could get so caught up in everything but always remember that Jesus loves her and Jesus wants her to have a relationship with him, and blah-dee, blah-dee, blah.

Then some dude with a hole in his sock came and did a little musical-type serenade on stage about how he’s had enough with money. He’d love to hate to love you, money, but he just can’t. So he’s had enough. And he takes off his expensive watch, his tie and his shoes and throws them in a briefcase. Yeah, he’s through with money. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

And then there was Trevor, who has a lisp, a soft voice and a small frame. Trevor’s in his later fifties, probably, and he wears pleated slacks, and and oxford under a sweater vest. Trevor would be a rabbit if he were an animal – but with a slightly larger nose than the usual rabbit.

When Trevor talks he interrupts himself with, or tacks on at the end of every sentence, a small and inquiring “heh?” It doesn’t matter what kind of sentence. He can say, “I just love Jesus. Heh?” or “Today, can I talk to you about money? Heh?” That’s another thing, Trevor asks for permission. Trevor also peppers his sermons with tidbits of Christian humor: “Now let’s be honest. I know we’re in church and all, but let’s tell the truth…” Silly Trevor.

Fittingly enough, Trevor talked to us about money. He opened his sermon with the story in Mark’s gospel about the rich kid who asks Jesus how he can secure his spot in heaven. Jesus tells him to follow the Commandments and teachings, and the rich kid says he does, perfectly. And then Jesus tells him he must give everything to the poor and follow him. At this, the young guy walks away downtrodden, not wanting to give up his riches, for he has many.

Trevor tells us that this story is important for a specific person – for the person who puts money before God. God says that you can’t serve two masters – you will either love the one and hate the other or vice versa. So Trevor eases our fears of being called to give up our riches and reminds us that the story of the rich kid is meant to be a message for people who struggle with the problem of serving two masters. It’s not meant for everyone. Not everyone is meant to give up their riches.

But Jesus does say that it is nearly impossible for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Trevor interjects with an exclamation – “He doesn’t say – He doesn’t say it’s impossible! And he doesn’t say that it’s easy for a poor person to enter heaven; in fact, it’s very hard, too.” But Trevor reminds us that Jesus is saying this about the people who put money before God.

God just has to come before money, that’s all.

In fact, we can use money to serve God, he says. We must be creative with our money – make a lot so we can give a lot. We must be good managers of our money – we can’t just give it all away! That would be stupid! Someone has to be poor, but it sure doesn’t have to be you if you’re rich. No one wants to be poor, anyway. “Poverty,” says Trevor, “is de-YUmanizing. It’s de-YUmanizing. De-YUmanizing.” (That’s another thing Trevor does in a very pastoral way: he repeats things for emphasis. Again. And again.)

It’s a very scary thing, I would imagine, being a white, wealthy Christian in South Africa, where poverty would be cured if the wealth were more evenly dispersed. It’s hard, really hard. But Trevor did a great job at allowing people to leave church feeling guiltless, and even relieved.

Whew! As long as I give some, I’m alright, I can keep the rest. Oh yeah, and God comes first.

But you can’t be a Christian if you’re not a socialist. And how can you be a Christian if you have room within yourself to care about anything else besides Jesus? I really don’t get it.

~|~

School started today, and I could have skipped to class at 7:30 in the morning.

I. Love. School. Halleluiah, praise the Lord, I love school. In South Africa, you don’t have to go to class. I mean, professors make it out like you have to, but you don’t have to. But I will! For fun! Because I love school! I love writing in my agenda! I love having homework! I love everything! I love it! I love pens! I love pencils! I love scratch things off my To-Do list! I love reading textbooks! I love getting syllabi! I love sitting right in the middle and getting to class early! Yahoo!

Six other foreigners and I have the same class on Tuesday mornings at 7:30. So we walk there together. We love our professor. She’s brilliant, lean and tall, with long graying hair held back by a head band. She has nice hands that float along the wavelengths of her speech.

She knows what she’s talking about. She’ll be great. Her name is – I have no clue, because I can’t pronounce, nor spell, any of the names of the people I meet. But she will teach us foreign policy. And she will teach us well.

She doesn’t like you to be late to class.

“If you are late,” she says in her heavily accented English, “don’t come. Five minutes is fine. But after that, just go and have some coffee or something. It’s too disruptive.”

I love her. And ma’am, I will not be late and I will never be tardy.

My next class was at 4:30 p.m. with a man professor. He’s funny looking – like a European from Hollywood or something. He wears blonde hair, kind of messily parted somewhere on his head. He dressed himself in a smart sweater with a collegiate emblem. He looks like he could either be buff or fat, at this point I can’t tell.

He talks like he has a lot on his mind. He goes on for a few sentences and then pauses – either at the end of the last one or in the middle of the new one. He pauses, and you can see it on his face that he’s just lost his place among the files in his brain. He sorts through them, as if in no hurry at times, and when he finds the one he lost, he picks back up again.

He talks like a philosopher, with words like “fundamental” and “essentially” and “modernity.” I think philosophy and political science students take a class called “How to Sound Smart, Even if You Aren’t.” And Mr. Whatever took that class; although, he really actually is smart.

It will be a great class, and tomorrow morning we’ll be starting with Plato.

~|~

I am finally caught up.

Every day, I become more rooted here. I am adapting and learning. I’ve done all my grocery shopping and stocked my cabinet and portion of the fridge full. I live here now. It’s been a week, and it will be many more, and I’m finally realizing that.

Madison, Matt and I are growing comfortable with one another. We share secrets and food; we make plans and leave functions early. We’re growing into one another.

My house is fully stocked with students on each end, occupying each room. There is Mandy from Holland across from me and Anna right next door. There is Claudia, Lui, and Kim down the hall on the other side. There is Dani and Isa and Jamie; Carmen, Xinyu and Ying; Teresa and Leonie – all in the houses down the road. There is Michael and Peter and Shane and Ferdie. There is Thomas and Nick. Then there’s Madison, Matt and me.

Together, we are the Czech Republic, Holland, China, Singapore, Mexico, Germany and the U.S.

I cut nearly five inches off my hair today. Yes, I did it myself. I needed it, and I surprisingly don’t regret it. Even though it is noticeably shorter. It might look horrible, but I’m okay with that, actually. I’m in AFRICA, who cares. (Plus, RESTON, I have no one to impress, anyway! It’ll be grown out by the time I come back home to you.)

By the way, I found out that Nelly Mandelly is a boy, not a girl.