The end.

I flew 38,000 feet above the Lybian Desert again; sat in an airborn capsule catapulting me back into the West. Four months ago I reread Salinger's Franny and Zooey. En route to Africa, Salinger's words resonated in my popping ears: "I go mostly because I'm tired as hell of getting up furious in the morning and going to bed furious at night. I go because I sit in judgment on every poor” person I know (Salinger, 139). I was tired of it because “there are nice things in the world- and I mean nice things. We’re all such morons to get so sidetracked. Always, always referring everything that happens right back to our own lousy egos” (Salinger, 152). I was fed up with judging myself, and judging others, without experience or legitimacy to back up any of the judgment. I was tired of working so hard for a joy that I know comes naturally if I don't get bogged down with my own fluff. Mostly though, I was ready. I left the summer in a calm place of preparedness. "The time has come" the Walrus told me, and off I went.

I dreamt of Africa. I did so growing up, and while I studied at Uganda Christian University, and have since my return. My presence there never really felt a part of me. When I was in fourth grade a woman visited Fitchville Baptist Church in Bozrah, Connecticut. She worked for a school in Kenya. She gave me a small, leather, flip-flop keychain. Seven years later my car keys flopped along with that piece of East Africa. A few years after that, it held my college dorm keys and meal card. It held the keys to my first apartment the summer before my Ugandan semester, before I left the keychain to come back to its origination myself. Walking off the plane onto the runway in August, the huge African, starlit sky engulfed me. Yet, it let me be. I went to Africa and was still following myself around. I shook my arms to attempt to feel what remained so far away. And as I left last Tuesday night, I again walked across that runway. Ached up into the starlit sky, and knew this was going to be hard.

Arriving in Uganda was simpler. Exciting. I left a place I love for a place I did not know. On Tuesday I left a place I love for a place I love. I wisper to myself: "live in the tension!" while I wonder if I'll ever live out of the tension again. "Displacement is not primarily something to do or to accomplish, but something to recognize” (Nouwen, 71).

My semester abroad made me feel like the snail in Issa’s haiku: O snail, Climb Mount Fugi, But slowly, slowly! (Kobayashi Issa). Even though the world felt smaller as I lived on the other side of it, the problems of the world did not. But, despite the mountain range, I realized the necessity of continuing the climb.

And I do not know what will come next. Well, that is a lie- I know that Christmas is next, is tomorrow. And then my last semester of Gordon. I know that right now I wear gloves as I type on the computer, so I'll soon leave this spot for a cozier one downstairs. I'll talk to my Mom and sit at the kitchen table that has made mention in this blog so many times. I like sitting at it. But more long-term, more wide-frame panoramic, how long I will stay or go? Will I do good or just be present? I stay right now because is the truest form of faithfulness available. If staying in six months is still the only blatant way to live what seems ought to come next, I hope I have the courage to do so. If flying off somewhere, whether it be Chicago or the Lybian Desert or Phnom Penh, I hope the same. I don't know if I believe in moments of epiphany or promise for changing the world any more. I do believe in following opportunities to give of myself- here and far, and wherever I end up. I desire to give of myself. Faithfully.

Thank you for being present with me through this semester. For following my thoughts and frustrations and sudden startling joys. My days home have been an amusing adventure in themselves already- as if the layover in Amsterdam was not amusing enough. Feel free to inquire as to things outside of my time as "a broad abroad." Like Ugandans would say: "you are most welcome."

Viruses and Exams

Reflecting on last week brings to mind viruses and exams: viruses rampant in computers, and starting an epidemic in Western Uganda; exams every other day, interspersed with study fests and last hurrahs. I’m halfway through my exams, “papers” in local coinage. If you have any good information on globalization or foreign aid in East Africa since independence, let me know.

This whole ending process is weird. If you figure out how to say goodbye or deal with last-times, fill me in on that too.

Half of our last weekend was spent sitting in, and on the porch of, a “salon.” Girls here “plait” there hair pretty regularly- braid or twist in fake hair to create different styles, lengths, etc. In twelve hours on Saturday I went from short, curly haired Kimberly to long, twisted haired Nassali. And just like it still doesn’t feel real to be here, the surreality of being home will be dizzying. Just like I am constantly thankful for the reminders that home exists and I’m still a part of it- letters from Mom, Yoda drawings from Aidan, and mere thoughts, dreams, of not feeling sick after each meal- my hair will be a temporary, tangible reminder at home that this was not all a dream. Arriving here was a process. Plaiting my hair was a tedious process. My return will be a process too. I shook my arms to attempt feeling this place four months ago. As I adjust back, take out my twists, and put on long sleeves, I’ll hug my mom and shake my arms, not only to warm up in the sudden winter cold, but to attempt to feel home anew.

I think it will feel like Red Rose tea at a kitchen table in Connecticut, bumping knees with mia madre, and receiving a long-missed bear hug from mio padre.

Dark Chocolate Confection

An amusing miscommunication during my last LiA interview on Wednesday: Apoka Alex and I could not connect on the number of children he supports. There was repeated discrepancy: 3, 2, 5, 4. Some questions often meet with confusion, but number of children had never previously been difficult to interpret. I wrote what I thought was the correct amount, and continued on with the survey. Then, when I finished the third of what I thought should be five children surveys I was told I was done.

“But, aren’t there two more?”

“Yes.”

“Well…may I also interview them?”

“I have another wife. They are with my other wife.”

The survey is specific to each household, and the discrepancy was that the two other children are a part of Alex’s other household. Like many Ugandan men, he is polygamous. Once again, Western assumptions slapped me in the face.

I handed in my final literature paper this week- had my last lit class with Prof. Mukakanya. He’s a wonderful, eclectic, elderly Ugandan man. He makes sounds of agreement that resemble Yoda and has sideburns that resemble the 1970s. On the first day of class he asked what previous interaction we each had with African literature, and upon hearing of my previous readings of Ngugi, Soyinka, Mukulu and the like, we had an immediate bond. It’s odd to begin the goodbyes.

I have a hard time staying involved when the goodbyes have begun, and we’re starting to receive information about handing in hangers and bed sheets. I’m fighting the inclination to check out emotionally. I’m not fighting it hard enough. The weather gets hotter, and the puddle I’m reduced to every day covets the winter approaching New England. Ugandan writing style and grade scale differ enough for me to dread my final exams. I’m done with LiA, and the next few weeks seem longer than necessary. I love it here, but if I have to leave, let’s get it over with.

Today I cradled a dark chocolate bar of an infant, confectious and curly haired. For an hour she drifted in and out of sleep, while I kept my hand on her back to make sure she was breathing- so tiny and fragile, I was nervous I’d break her. I was again visiting TAPP (see previous post), but for World AIDS Day this time. Several of us went to help at an event supporting and advertising AIDS treatment and prevention; supporting the end of “stigma and segregation.” We pinned red ribbons to women’s gomezi, served lunch and soda, and I cradled the infant while a Canadian doctor spoke about how HIV/AIDS is and is not spread. And I wondered how long this confection would survive; wondered if she is HIV/AIDS positive. Her presence there today means her mom probably is.