Kelli and James have since departed and the days no longer play out like A Comedy of Errors. They read now like A Winter’s Tale, long with a pinch of melancholy. My dad tells me that I shouldn’t be in a third world country alone and I reply back by quoting some feminist line I might have read online or on the back of book somewhere. Later that night, when two thieves attempt to break into my apartment I think maybe my dad was right. I can handle it though.
When I walk the streets of Kampala, I overcompensate for my vulnerabilities by shooting off confidence and attitude like roman candles. I’ll admit it also helps to have your own personal theme song playing in your head when walking unaccompanied. I usually select something in the rap genre, a little rougher, maybe some DMX. I think somehow this puts an edge in my step. Maybe people will not want to mess with a girl that walks like an angry pirate, minus the cool parrot and peg-leg, although one of my legs is shorter than the other.
However, none of this seemed to hinder a man from deliberately getting off at my taxi stop just to hit on me. He followed me for a few steps and approached by opening with his top ten pick-up lines followed by the disappointing second act, the old number request. I responded with the usual- that I don’t own a cell phone here in Uganda. And of course right then the “mosquito” ring tone I chose emits from my backpack; My cell phone, which is happily nestled next to my malaria pills, buzzes, laughing at my humiliation. Besides that instance, I haven’t had any trouble living and working by myself. I actually enjoy it. I just imagine that I am Erin Brokovitch, or Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, minus the cleavage.
It’s funny, as self-reliant, self-assured and (insert all of those other positive self words) as I exude to be and at times possess, I own equal portions in weakness. These children remind me of that and that the very same ratio occurs in life. Life, you know- that crazy yin-yang pendulum thingy that inevitably keeps swinging to and fro, in our favor and against. When the balance tends to tip we hope that need does not spill over into greed, that despair will not sour the return of love. The children force me to recognize the frailty and preciousness in being.
And Joshua is an excellent example of that reminder. I walked into the babies’ home yesterday and was greeted by a new boy. Not greeted really, more like stared at. We locked eyes. My mouth opened, I was transfixed. His mouth mirrored mine, but only because he was too drained to close it. “This child came in yesterday,” some ominous voice behind me called out like an intercom. I didn’t turn to see who the voice box was. “He was found on someone’s door step, crying. As you can see he’s malnourished,” the voice box spoke again. I glanced down at his flesh, which apparently was abandoning him also, dried and withered; it drooped off his body escaping the bone. For an instant I was frightened of him. The sight of him paralyzed me. A lady holding him placed him in my arms. My hand grazed his back. His shoulder blades were jutting out like he was sprouting wings. I could feel my heart beating faster. Oh god, please don’t let me lose it. I have seen a lot in my few months here, can I please not lose it now. Not in front of all these nurses. His head pressed against my chest and I absorbed his helplessness; somewhere inside me it did a waltz with my own vulnerability. A huge knot welled in the back of my throat. I felt like I had swallowed a lego.
I held him for three hours. The other nurses said he would not sleep. I understood why. I rocked him very softly. He started to nod off and if I moved even an eyelash he would reawaken, eyes wide and searching. His weak hands would dig their soft fingertips into my arm, begging for me to not disappear. I am so sorry little man. I am so sorry.
I gazed at the top of his head and silently prayed, wishing somehow my words would descend upon him, forming shingles or plates of armor, protecting him. I don’t really pray much, but I did for him.
I kept it together at the babies’ center for the most part. Although, I didn’t make it all the way home. He resurfaced in my mind when I was at the supermarket. I was in the drink section grabbing a sprite and his face popped up, his little arms, little dangling legs. I don’t know. I guess it surprised me suddenly, overwhelming me like an asthma attack, clenching tighter and tighter with each inhale. I turned the corner and saw that the bread aisle was empty, so I stood there. And next to a dozen muffins, I quietly let it out.
After I was done I recomposed myself and went to check out.
When I walk the streets of Kampala, I overcompensate for my vulnerabilities by shooting off confidence and attitude like roman candles. I’ll admit it also helps to have your own personal theme song playing in your head when walking unaccompanied. I usually select something in the rap genre, a little rougher, maybe some DMX. I think somehow this puts an edge in my step. Maybe people will not want to mess with a girl that walks like an angry pirate, minus the cool parrot and peg-leg, although one of my legs is shorter than the other.
However, none of this seemed to hinder a man from deliberately getting off at my taxi stop just to hit on me. He followed me for a few steps and approached by opening with his top ten pick-up lines followed by the disappointing second act, the old number request. I responded with the usual- that I don’t own a cell phone here in Uganda. And of course right then the “mosquito” ring tone I chose emits from my backpack; My cell phone, which is happily nestled next to my malaria pills, buzzes, laughing at my humiliation. Besides that instance, I haven’t had any trouble living and working by myself. I actually enjoy it. I just imagine that I am Erin Brokovitch, or Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, minus the cleavage.
It’s funny, as self-reliant, self-assured and (insert all of those other positive self words) as I exude to be and at times possess, I own equal portions in weakness. These children remind me of that and that the very same ratio occurs in life. Life, you know- that crazy yin-yang pendulum thingy that inevitably keeps swinging to and fro, in our favor and against. When the balance tends to tip we hope that need does not spill over into greed, that despair will not sour the return of love. The children force me to recognize the frailty and preciousness in being.
And Joshua is an excellent example of that reminder. I walked into the babies’ home yesterday and was greeted by a new boy. Not greeted really, more like stared at. We locked eyes. My mouth opened, I was transfixed. His mouth mirrored mine, but only because he was too drained to close it. “This child came in yesterday,” some ominous voice behind me called out like an intercom. I didn’t turn to see who the voice box was. “He was found on someone’s door step, crying. As you can see he’s malnourished,” the voice box spoke again. I glanced down at his flesh, which apparently was abandoning him also, dried and withered; it drooped off his body escaping the bone. For an instant I was frightened of him. The sight of him paralyzed me. A lady holding him placed him in my arms. My hand grazed his back. His shoulder blades were jutting out like he was sprouting wings. I could feel my heart beating faster. Oh god, please don’t let me lose it. I have seen a lot in my few months here, can I please not lose it now. Not in front of all these nurses. His head pressed against my chest and I absorbed his helplessness; somewhere inside me it did a waltz with my own vulnerability. A huge knot welled in the back of my throat. I felt like I had swallowed a lego.
I held him for three hours. The other nurses said he would not sleep. I understood why. I rocked him very softly. He started to nod off and if I moved even an eyelash he would reawaken, eyes wide and searching. His weak hands would dig their soft fingertips into my arm, begging for me to not disappear. I am so sorry little man. I am so sorry.
I gazed at the top of his head and silently prayed, wishing somehow my words would descend upon him, forming shingles or plates of armor, protecting him. I don’t really pray much, but I did for him.
I kept it together at the babies’ center for the most part. Although, I didn’t make it all the way home. He resurfaced in my mind when I was at the supermarket. I was in the drink section grabbing a sprite and his face popped up, his little arms, little dangling legs. I don’t know. I guess it surprised me suddenly, overwhelming me like an asthma attack, clenching tighter and tighter with each inhale. I turned the corner and saw that the bread aisle was empty, so I stood there. And next to a dozen muffins, I quietly let it out.
After I was done I recomposed myself and went to check out.
1 comment:
Hi Lauren,
I'm sorry to hear you are alone out there, but I know you can take care of yourself. I sent your blog and site to as many people as I know. Hope all is well.
Youssef
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