Hey Friends...
You know those moments, when you think to yourself, “Now how in the world did I get here… how did everything in my life culminate to this present situation?” Well, I had one of those moments this week. On Monday, I found myself laying on an IHK (International Hospital of Kampala) cot, having a legitimate mental break down… bawling my eyes out, the kind of sobs that come with snot, and heaves, sucking in the air around me, the kind of breaths that are somehow never deep enough, wondering how I even got there…
I guess I’ll rewind to the beginning of the week… (I apologize in advance for the gruesome details)
On Monday last week, I noticed a bite of some sort on my right leg, it was about half way between my ankle and my knee, on the right side. All of us always wake up with strange scratches, bruises, and bites that we have no clue how we got every morning. It pretty much looked like every spider bite I’ve ever had, so I wasn’t too worried about it. On Tuesday it had gotten a little bigger, and the circle of skin surrounding it started to become hard, tight, and red… I continued figuring it was just a spider bite, and that it would go away…
Throughout the busy week, the gradually growing leg bite wasn’t my biggest concern, and the pain wasn’t that noticeable. I just kept convincing myself that it was getting better. On Saturday, however, my walk was reduced to a limp at times, and when I returned home from the various adventures of the day, the lower half of my leg and my foot started to swell. I decided to stay home and write instead of going to Prayer Mountain with the rest of my house. (With all the people coming and going it’s hard to keep up, but two more long-term volunteers arrived last week Laura, and Torrie, and they’re awesome.) We all agreed that I should probably go to the hospital in the morning.
It was so good to just sit and write, sipping a warm cup of African tea, the cool evening breeze encompassing me through the open window, and an amazing music playlist guiding my jumbled emotions onto a blank word document. I’ve come to really, truly, honestly, love writing, and it’s weird, because I never thought I would even like it. But over these last two years it’s become my passion, my outlet, and my escape. It has become an art form to me… a way to originally, and effectively capture an idea, a story, truth. I am nowhere close to beauty yet, but I like the process of striving for it. So I guess some people have their cameras, some have their paintbrushes, some have their instruments, but I have a QWERTY keyboard and I wouldn’t want it any other way… My laptop has become a haven of brainstorms, vents, and written pictures that I use to remember the spirit of people and places, an ever changing record of my developing perspectives, and views. I have tons of various projects that I work on, CLD text stuff, hundreds of pages of future book and movie ideas that may never ever work out, but it’s fun to dream, and a years worth of journals, and memoirs that I love creating, tweaking, and editing pretty much everyday, grasping for that perfect string of words that will make someone experience what I experienced, and feel what I felt…
I left my computer to charge in our living room, took three Ibuprofen pills to make certain I could sleep throughout the night and went to bed. When I woke up on Sunday morning, the pain in my leg was pretty intense, and I hobbled out to breakfast. After a few more Ibuprofen pills I started looking for my phone in the living room next to where I had left my laptop the previous night. Except, there was no laptop, and there was no phone. I just figured it was in someone else’s room that hadn’t awakened yet… I called my phone from Susan’s and it went immediately to the “we’re sorry this number is not available” recording… meaning that someone had turned it off… My heart began to race, and the juices in my stomach began to churn and rise. We woke up the rest of the house to look for the missing phone, and computer, but only discovered more things missing. Susan’s backpack holding her American phone, and ipod, Julie’s Ugandan phone, and Jeremy’s shoes were all gone too. We still don’t know how it happened, but it did, and there was no where I could go, and nothing I could do to escape the hopelessness surging through every vein, and every thought.
There were periodic seconds I needed to stop moving and thinking so I could concentrate on not vomiting, I couldn’t look anyone in the eye, because I feared a break down. I ran out of the tension-filled house and let out a frustrated scream (not free of profanity I’m afraid) and then gathered myself enough to put on my I’ll-be-ok face for everyone else. But there was no way I could compel myself to go to the hospital.
Our friend, James the Man, (we call him that because he’s just the man, you’d understand if you met him) and Susan did a salt-water remedy on my leg that James said would make it go away. Later that night we were watching a movie on Torrie’s laptop and the wound just started to gush blood in spurts. As I pressed the tight swelling toward the hole, more blood, and what I thought was puss started to come out. Jeremy was sitting next to me, and excitedly exclaims, “That’s not puss, those are eggs!” I get sick to my stomach, and Laura gets gauze and a towel to catch the oozing. Jeremy has dealt with these infections multiple times before and says we need to press it all out. I don’t have a very high pain tolerance and my leg had already been throbbing without exerting any force on it, with each squeeze, the pressure was more than I could handle. Finally by the third excruciating press I had both arms around the arm of the couch, gripping as hard as I could, crying out, tears falling, and Jeremy yells “Oh my God!” as an egg sack breaks some more skin and bursts out of my leg, “it almost hit my eye… This is epic!” and blood continues to squirt, like I’ve seen in Tarantino movies. (Well maybe not that bad, but it was really crazy.) We repeat the process two more times, me screaming, Jeremy squeezing, and calmly uttering “Sweetheart, it’s going to be ok” and two more sacks pop out. By the end of the torture it looked like a bullet hole. We figured we got the most of it, so we disinfected the wound with hydrogen peroxide and put antibiotic cream and a band-aid on it. The next morning the swelling had decreased significantly, and the hole had become more level with my skin, but it was still oozing, so Susan and I decided to finally go to the hospital.
The hospital isn’t that easily reached and we have to take two taxis, walk half a mile, and then get a boda, and an hour and a half after departure we get there. I fill out a card at the reception desk and it gets put behind a multitude of other cards. There are not enough places to sit in the overcrowded waiting room, and my leg starts bleeding through the band-aid. It catches the eye of the others in the room, and I remove the band-aid to a chorus of gasps, and awe-filled noises, it felt pretty badass to be the biggest spectacle in an African Hospital. The nurse finally calls my name and I get led through a series of short hallways, past the consultation rooms, through a door, morbidly and incorrectly labeled “casualties” and to a bed amongst other beds with very sickly looking people. The nurse takes a sample of the puss, and tells me to be strong because they have to clean everything out of the hole. The nurse’s assistant comes in and begins to squeeze my leg like Jeremy did, except this time only blood is coming out… and I am already crying. Another nurse’s assistant comes in, and gets out a syringe and starts loading “liquid antibiotics” removes the needle part and inserts the plastic into the hole in my leg and injects 5ml of fluid. Susan is holding her breath stroking my left leg, and I am trying to breathe, gripping the side of the hospital bed, and the nurses shout “sorry” in harmony to my passionate groans. When they remove the syringe a large, bubbling, foaming, yellow cloud explodes out of my leg, so they wipe it, and do the same thing again, with the same result. The third time, all 5ml goes directly into my leg and they look to each other, and at Susan and me, and exclaim, “it is too deep, we don’t know what else to do.” The head nurse comes in and tells me that I’m going to have to consult a surgeon. And then I really started crying.
So there I was having a complete dramatic break down in the middle of an African Hospital, every person on a hospital bed was turned and looking at me, and all their moral support was staring too. The nurses tried to explain that it was over, for now, they weren’t going to squeeze my leg anymore. But the tears came harder, I tried to regain composure, but I failed each time, so I stopped caring about putting on my I’ll-be-ok face, and I just let it all out. I didn’t have any tissues to wipe my nose, and I couldn’t see because of the volume of tears. And Susan, being the best best-friend in the world, kept apologizing for my pain. I couldn’t even talk, I was just sobbing, crying because my leg hurt, crying because I want my writing back, crying because something gross laid eggs inside of me, crying because I can’t afford another laptop, crying because our house was violated, crying because Africa is so messed up, crying because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with my life, crying just because…
I guess this is the part of the email where I usually say something encouraging or hopeful… the worthwhile realization amidst/after the storm, and I’m not really sure what I have to say right now. I’m on intense antibiotics, and my leg is getting better by the hour, Torrie has a laptop that she said I can use to type my update emails. I still have pen and paper, and the core thoughts behind every page of writing I’ve lost, and I’ve somewhat regained my mental stability, so does that make everything ok? Well, it has to be ok, because there is nothing else I can do. There is nothing I can’t afford to lose, nothing that is truly unrecoverable, and nothing life requires of me except to breathe.
I forget that Africa wasn’t meant to be a feel good experience, it’s not summer camp, or a warped Disneyland for volun-tourism… it’s a place filled to the brim with disease, corruption, and chaos. It is raw, and I am vulnerable, and it’s somehow scary and brilliant all at once. I have never been in so much pain or felt so much love, cried so much or laughed so much… and it’s that extreme duality that intrigues me, that I haven’t experienced anywhere else, that has taught me that breathing, not laptops, not phones, not comfort, not jobs, not health, not houses, not money, is the essence of life, and I’m learning to be thankful for each singular inhale.
Know that if you could see my face right now, it screams “I’ll be ok,” and if you could meet the people I live with and work with everyday, you’d know why. I’m glad for who you are, and who you’ve been in my life. You’ve given me an endless list of things to be thankful for when I selfishly want to feel sorry for myself… I had my dramatic mental break down and I’m recuperating and ready for what comes next…
Breathing,
Nicole
Ps. My individual responses may be fewer and farther between these days, because I can’t use wireless internet anymore, but know that I appreciate each and everything I receive…
August 11, 2008: The Hardness Factor
Hey Everyone!
So all of our summer volunteers left last Friday, and it was just Julie, Jeremy, Susan, and me for a week, but a few days ago two more friends from Colorado, Tanya and Chady, arrived and now Julie’s sister Sarah is here!
Right now I’m sitting by myself in our guest-house listening, and being constantly distracted by the torrential rain… I marvel at the way the gray sky can down pour so consistently for such long amounts of time. In Colorado the sky rarely cries, and if it does it’s always a relatively short tantrum, not here, not in Africa… I know that it will rain this hard for at least the next hour, and will continue to rain on and off for the rest of the day. I’m thinking about all the times I’ve lost my flip flops in flash flooding streams down the streets of Kampala and how everyone laughs at me as I get drenched chasing after them. I’m thinking about how I’m going to have to walk up my dirt hill road, as soon as I’m finished typing, to send this email at the internet cafe, and know that I will slip at least twice. I’m thinking about how everything is harder in Africa… it rains harder, I laugh harder, and I fall harder… it’s difficult to communicate that aspect of living here, but the hardness plays into every program, and project that goes on, and if you understand this part, I feel like you can better grasp the essence of this place.
When I wake up in the morning, usually a little bit before 9, I’m a little sore from sleeping on a thin mattress, in a hard wood bunk. As we each grab some tea or coffee everyone is still a bit tired, like we will be for the rest of the day, and has their little sniffles, and coughs, headaches, and fevers, and usually some sort of bathroom issue, but we’re all used to our little ailments by now, because that’s just the way it is.
After breakfast we all discuss our various programs for the day, and no matter what our plan entails, we all must face the hill. Just thinking about walking up the hill is exhausting; I have to watch out for dead animals swarmed by flies, different types of feces, huge rocks, and all sorts of garbage in the middle of road. I have to constantly watch where I’m going, because bicycles, trucks, cars, and bodas (motorcycle things) zoom past, and honk at me unexpectedly from different directions, and there are endless ditches, and potholes. I stop and greet all the people that I’ve made friends with along the way, still get surprised by all the goats, and cows, hold hands of the kids that come to walk with me, and shout out “how are you’s” and “I’m fine’s.” The entire road is uneven, slanted, and a workout… my thighs still burn, and I still get out of breath every time I walk it.
Once at the top, I have to decide how I’m getting to where I’m going, trying to remember all the different prices for all the different places by taxi or by boda so that I don’t get ripped off. We are constantly overcharged, and have to be on our toes bargaining for everything, refusing to be taken advantage of. It takes at least twenty minutes to get anywhere, and boarding every mode of public transport is a quest, because we always almost crash, hit someone, or something, and as foreigners we get shouted at and pointed at, and laughed at (especially if we try to speak Luganda).
Wherever I go, to the kids house, to the slums, to the sew shop, to city center, to the farm, to internet… I nod and wave to all the people that shout mzungu (white person) at me when I walk by, refuse to give money to begging children, and literally step over lame, and deformed people that lay in the middle of sidewalks (if I can even call them sidewalks). Everything always takes figuring out, like how I’m going to make change to pay for things, because the bank only gives 20,000 shilling bills, and no one can ever break them. Getting food is a hassle, and always takes at least an hour. English is different here, and there is constant miscommunication with every Ugandan we talk to. Africa time means everything is delayed at least an hour, and things that should only take 15 minutes, end up taking the whole day. If we drive anywhere we run the risk of getting pulled over for no reason, and then having to bribe our way out of being taken to jail. And I won’t even get started on the bathroom situation…
There isn’t always electricity, there isn’t always running water, there are no drive-thrus, there are no supermarkets, and there are no time-outs, everything in Africa is harder. But I’ve found that when surviving is hard, it gives life a whole new depth of meaning. And I still wake up every morning excited that I’m here, every time a child grabs my hand I get overwhelmed with feelings of contentment, and when I gaze at the green jungled hills I pass by everyday I still get a shock of chills through my whole body reminding me that I’m in Africa, and there’s no where else I’d rather be.
I guess I always thought I was a chaser of convenience, but for some crazy reason I’m glad that it’s hard here, that even though I get so frustrated sometimes… I’m thankful that I have to work for each and everything that I do… Adventure hasn’t ever found me on the path of least resistance, but it finds me on my hill everyday…
The rain has let up a bit now, so I’m about to brave the walk, and the chaos of the day, and by the time you get this I’ll have already made it there and back, but thanks for being a part of this journey, it would be even harder without you :)
Nicole
So all of our summer volunteers left last Friday, and it was just Julie, Jeremy, Susan, and me for a week, but a few days ago two more friends from Colorado, Tanya and Chady, arrived and now Julie’s sister Sarah is here!
Right now I’m sitting by myself in our guest-house listening, and being constantly distracted by the torrential rain… I marvel at the way the gray sky can down pour so consistently for such long amounts of time. In Colorado the sky rarely cries, and if it does it’s always a relatively short tantrum, not here, not in Africa… I know that it will rain this hard for at least the next hour, and will continue to rain on and off for the rest of the day. I’m thinking about all the times I’ve lost my flip flops in flash flooding streams down the streets of Kampala and how everyone laughs at me as I get drenched chasing after them. I’m thinking about how I’m going to have to walk up my dirt hill road, as soon as I’m finished typing, to send this email at the internet cafe, and know that I will slip at least twice. I’m thinking about how everything is harder in Africa… it rains harder, I laugh harder, and I fall harder… it’s difficult to communicate that aspect of living here, but the hardness plays into every program, and project that goes on, and if you understand this part, I feel like you can better grasp the essence of this place.
When I wake up in the morning, usually a little bit before 9, I’m a little sore from sleeping on a thin mattress, in a hard wood bunk. As we each grab some tea or coffee everyone is still a bit tired, like we will be for the rest of the day, and has their little sniffles, and coughs, headaches, and fevers, and usually some sort of bathroom issue, but we’re all used to our little ailments by now, because that’s just the way it is.
After breakfast we all discuss our various programs for the day, and no matter what our plan entails, we all must face the hill. Just thinking about walking up the hill is exhausting; I have to watch out for dead animals swarmed by flies, different types of feces, huge rocks, and all sorts of garbage in the middle of road. I have to constantly watch where I’m going, because bicycles, trucks, cars, and bodas (motorcycle things) zoom past, and honk at me unexpectedly from different directions, and there are endless ditches, and potholes. I stop and greet all the people that I’ve made friends with along the way, still get surprised by all the goats, and cows, hold hands of the kids that come to walk with me, and shout out “how are you’s” and “I’m fine’s.” The entire road is uneven, slanted, and a workout… my thighs still burn, and I still get out of breath every time I walk it.
Once at the top, I have to decide how I’m getting to where I’m going, trying to remember all the different prices for all the different places by taxi or by boda so that I don’t get ripped off. We are constantly overcharged, and have to be on our toes bargaining for everything, refusing to be taken advantage of. It takes at least twenty minutes to get anywhere, and boarding every mode of public transport is a quest, because we always almost crash, hit someone, or something, and as foreigners we get shouted at and pointed at, and laughed at (especially if we try to speak Luganda).
Wherever I go, to the kids house, to the slums, to the sew shop, to city center, to the farm, to internet… I nod and wave to all the people that shout mzungu (white person) at me when I walk by, refuse to give money to begging children, and literally step over lame, and deformed people that lay in the middle of sidewalks (if I can even call them sidewalks). Everything always takes figuring out, like how I’m going to make change to pay for things, because the bank only gives 20,000 shilling bills, and no one can ever break them. Getting food is a hassle, and always takes at least an hour. English is different here, and there is constant miscommunication with every Ugandan we talk to. Africa time means everything is delayed at least an hour, and things that should only take 15 minutes, end up taking the whole day. If we drive anywhere we run the risk of getting pulled over for no reason, and then having to bribe our way out of being taken to jail. And I won’t even get started on the bathroom situation…
There isn’t always electricity, there isn’t always running water, there are no drive-thrus, there are no supermarkets, and there are no time-outs, everything in Africa is harder. But I’ve found that when surviving is hard, it gives life a whole new depth of meaning. And I still wake up every morning excited that I’m here, every time a child grabs my hand I get overwhelmed with feelings of contentment, and when I gaze at the green jungled hills I pass by everyday I still get a shock of chills through my whole body reminding me that I’m in Africa, and there’s no where else I’d rather be.
I guess I always thought I was a chaser of convenience, but for some crazy reason I’m glad that it’s hard here, that even though I get so frustrated sometimes… I’m thankful that I have to work for each and everything that I do… Adventure hasn’t ever found me on the path of least resistance, but it finds me on my hill everyday…
The rain has let up a bit now, so I’m about to brave the walk, and the chaos of the day, and by the time you get this I’ll have already made it there and back, but thanks for being a part of this journey, it would be even harder without you :)
Nicole
July 28, 2008: Come, Let's Dance
Hey hey!
Wow a lot has happened these last two weeks but I’m going to try to convey the happenings as best I can capturing the mood, the feelings, and the realizations that have occurred…
Last Friday, I sat in an African clinic crying with Charlie, a six-year-old little boy who had malaria. As the doctor injected the iv, Charlie kicked, squirmed and tried to bite the doctor, and an aid had to hold him down because I wasn’t strong enough. Charlie screamed out “Mama” repeatedly, and I helplessly watched absorbing his wails for a non-existent mother. I tried comforting him as best I could kissing his forehead as if me being there made up for a mother that isn’t.
The next day, we went out to the village where the Come Let’s Dance farm is, to do a medical outreach. Some of the teams that are here have pre-med students, and one guy John is a firefighter with some paramedic experience. They handled the big stuff while others played with kids, and others took care of the less serious ailments. For me, it meant that I ended up flossing kids’ teeth for a few hours. Teeth that had never been brushed let alone flossed, and were black and soft with decay. I was the cause of several bleeding gums, and a lot of tears from fearful kids. Since I was the only person dealing with teeth word got out, and so many people came to me and pointed out their toothaches, and severely cavitied mouths, pleading for me to do something. I can’t pull teeth, or fix cavities, or make the pain go away. I just had to say “sorry” in my makeshift Luganda accent and send them away. I never knew how much it hurt to look a destitute person, with no hope, in the eye and say “there’s nothing I can do.”
On Wednesday, our house got robbed in the middle of the day. In broad daylight, people sawed off the bars to our windows, climbed in, wrecked our house, and got away with laptops, phones, ipods, cameras, cash, and a passport. The only thing that got stolen of mine was my American phone, but Susan and the others staying with me weren’t so lucky. It was devastating to walk up our hill to the police station, looking at everyone that probably saw the thieves escape, and knowing that even though we’re here trying to help, we are all still targets.
This and so much more are the backbone of our days, and weeks, and when people at home ask, “how is Africa?” I think about the non-existent mothers, and the there-is-nothing-I-can-do’s and the fact that at the end of the day I still come from a very different world. I’ve been thinking about how these experiences and the life I live out here are beginning to become numb and normal, but I got a wake up call this last week.
I’ve always been romantic, and ideal… when I first stepped off the plane in Africa last January I legitimately thought I was going to save the continent. I have now realized my naivety and have grown aware and accustomed to my hopeless and discouraging cynicisms, not brushing them off like I used to but instead welcoming them as my rite of passage into adulthood. Discovering that the world isn’t ponies and rainbows, and that a humanitarian revolution isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I have begun to be lured by the darkness of a cynical view of life, considering myself more mature for seeing pessimism instead of optimism, responsibly understanding that negativity comes along with growing up.
Jeremy was reading a book called Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell, and he finished as we were having breakfast the other morning, and slammed it down on the table with a huge smile and said “wow, that was like the best book I’ve ever read… can I please read you guys part of the epilogue?” Susan and I agreed, and the part that hit me the most was as follows:
“I have lots of reasons for bailing on the whole thing… I have a choice. To become bitter, cynical, jaded, and hard. Anybody can do that. A lot have… there is a lot to be repulsed by… Or… I can choose to reclaim my innocence… we can insist that hope is real, and that a group of people… really can change the world. We can reclaim our idealism and our belief, and our confidence in the big ideas that stir us deep in our bones.”
I was slapped in the face by my darkened view of what it means to be a leader, and becoming a grown up. “Anybody can do that” the words continue to echo in my ears and through my thoughts and I have begun to understand the challenge that I now face. I don’t ever want to return to naivety and ignorance, but I want to see uncluttered reality embracing the horror and the wonder just the same, and decide to love it, because it’s life.
Two nights ago we all gathered for a group goodbye party at the kids’ house, because all the summer volunteers leave this week. We spent all day playing games, throwing kids up in the air, and holding them until they fell asleep. We had a huge dinner with all the Ugandan leaders, kids, and volunteers, and set up speakers and had a huge dance party in the lawn by candlelight. As I soaked up the wealth of new dance moves, (sure to make their way on to Red Robin mainline when I get back) all the devastation of the past two weeks seemed to slip into the shadow of the candlelight we were dancing in, because that night sums up why we’re doing what we’re doing. It’s about sharing a meal, building relationships, holding hands, laughing, smiling, dancing… it’s about community, and making enough room in the dancing circle for everyone that wants to join.
I don’t think I can save Africa anymore, I don’t think one day there will be no more orphans, I don’t think that one day we’ll stop being robbed… But I think sharing a plate of food with my Ugandan friend Ann, spinning Charlie around until I’m too dizzy to stand, and dancing until it hurts makes it beautiful anyway.
Loving, living, dancing,
Nicole
Wow a lot has happened these last two weeks but I’m going to try to convey the happenings as best I can capturing the mood, the feelings, and the realizations that have occurred…
Last Friday, I sat in an African clinic crying with Charlie, a six-year-old little boy who had malaria. As the doctor injected the iv, Charlie kicked, squirmed and tried to bite the doctor, and an aid had to hold him down because I wasn’t strong enough. Charlie screamed out “Mama” repeatedly, and I helplessly watched absorbing his wails for a non-existent mother. I tried comforting him as best I could kissing his forehead as if me being there made up for a mother that isn’t.
The next day, we went out to the village where the Come Let’s Dance farm is, to do a medical outreach. Some of the teams that are here have pre-med students, and one guy John is a firefighter with some paramedic experience. They handled the big stuff while others played with kids, and others took care of the less serious ailments. For me, it meant that I ended up flossing kids’ teeth for a few hours. Teeth that had never been brushed let alone flossed, and were black and soft with decay. I was the cause of several bleeding gums, and a lot of tears from fearful kids. Since I was the only person dealing with teeth word got out, and so many people came to me and pointed out their toothaches, and severely cavitied mouths, pleading for me to do something. I can’t pull teeth, or fix cavities, or make the pain go away. I just had to say “sorry” in my makeshift Luganda accent and send them away. I never knew how much it hurt to look a destitute person, with no hope, in the eye and say “there’s nothing I can do.”
On Wednesday, our house got robbed in the middle of the day. In broad daylight, people sawed off the bars to our windows, climbed in, wrecked our house, and got away with laptops, phones, ipods, cameras, cash, and a passport. The only thing that got stolen of mine was my American phone, but Susan and the others staying with me weren’t so lucky. It was devastating to walk up our hill to the police station, looking at everyone that probably saw the thieves escape, and knowing that even though we’re here trying to help, we are all still targets.
This and so much more are the backbone of our days, and weeks, and when people at home ask, “how is Africa?” I think about the non-existent mothers, and the there-is-nothing-I-can-do’s and the fact that at the end of the day I still come from a very different world. I’ve been thinking about how these experiences and the life I live out here are beginning to become numb and normal, but I got a wake up call this last week.
I’ve always been romantic, and ideal… when I first stepped off the plane in Africa last January I legitimately thought I was going to save the continent. I have now realized my naivety and have grown aware and accustomed to my hopeless and discouraging cynicisms, not brushing them off like I used to but instead welcoming them as my rite of passage into adulthood. Discovering that the world isn’t ponies and rainbows, and that a humanitarian revolution isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I have begun to be lured by the darkness of a cynical view of life, considering myself more mature for seeing pessimism instead of optimism, responsibly understanding that negativity comes along with growing up.
Jeremy was reading a book called Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell, and he finished as we were having breakfast the other morning, and slammed it down on the table with a huge smile and said “wow, that was like the best book I’ve ever read… can I please read you guys part of the epilogue?” Susan and I agreed, and the part that hit me the most was as follows:
“I have lots of reasons for bailing on the whole thing… I have a choice. To become bitter, cynical, jaded, and hard. Anybody can do that. A lot have… there is a lot to be repulsed by… Or… I can choose to reclaim my innocence… we can insist that hope is real, and that a group of people… really can change the world. We can reclaim our idealism and our belief, and our confidence in the big ideas that stir us deep in our bones.”
I was slapped in the face by my darkened view of what it means to be a leader, and becoming a grown up. “Anybody can do that” the words continue to echo in my ears and through my thoughts and I have begun to understand the challenge that I now face. I don’t ever want to return to naivety and ignorance, but I want to see uncluttered reality embracing the horror and the wonder just the same, and decide to love it, because it’s life.
Two nights ago we all gathered for a group goodbye party at the kids’ house, because all the summer volunteers leave this week. We spent all day playing games, throwing kids up in the air, and holding them until they fell asleep. We had a huge dinner with all the Ugandan leaders, kids, and volunteers, and set up speakers and had a huge dance party in the lawn by candlelight. As I soaked up the wealth of new dance moves, (sure to make their way on to Red Robin mainline when I get back) all the devastation of the past two weeks seemed to slip into the shadow of the candlelight we were dancing in, because that night sums up why we’re doing what we’re doing. It’s about sharing a meal, building relationships, holding hands, laughing, smiling, dancing… it’s about community, and making enough room in the dancing circle for everyone that wants to join.
I don’t think I can save Africa anymore, I don’t think one day there will be no more orphans, I don’t think that one day we’ll stop being robbed… But I think sharing a plate of food with my Ugandan friend Ann, spinning Charlie around until I’m too dizzy to stand, and dancing until it hurts makes it beautiful anyway.
Loving, living, dancing,
Nicole
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