Monthly Archives: September 2013

we are beautiful, confident, and we are changing the world.

Standard

Recently, our GLOW club spent a Friday afternoon studying CONFIDENCE, having a photoshoot, and hosting visitors from Ni Nyampinga (associated with the Nike Foundation) as my girls were being filmed declaring their vision for their future for a film to celebrate the INTERNATIONAL DAY OF THE GIRL next month. This film will be screened for the United Nations. I am a proud mama.

welcome to my happy place.

IMG_2714

Ruramira GLOW club singing and being filmed for an upcoming film for the United Nations to celebrate the International Day of the Girl. (!!!)

IMG_2676

beautiful Jeannine

IMG_2562

Zahara showing her confidence on the catwalk.

IMG_2530

Divine handles my crazy-ness so well.

IMG_2445

reading the girls’ empowerment magazine of Rwanda, Ni Nyampinga.

IMG_2456

of course we painted our nails. of course.

IMG_2486

“no fear”

IMG_2631

Josiane, posing with the flowers. typical.

IMG_2571

Copying the ‘Maisara’ swag.

IMG_2568

show me that YES WE ARE BEAUTIFUL.

IMG_2514

🙂

IMG_2686

the film crew. so proud.

IMG_2450

beautiful Yazina.

Advertisements

dusk run

Standard

*5:00pm
I’ve waited nearly 2 and a half hours for my pasta and veggie stir-fry to settle smoothly in my stomach. Does that sound healthy? I should probably note that an extreme amount of cheese was used in this particular creation. I spent my afternoon looking up proverbs to teach, organizing my lessons, and marking an exercise where my students created their own flags to represent their class. I lie for a few minutes on my mat before a surge of energy finds my muscles and I pop up, ready to find my gear. I tie my frayed and faded laces on my pink Asics. I have a strange love affair with these shoes. They are dirty (an ultimate Rwandan no-no) and worn but we’ve gone lots of places together – all over Rwanda, Uganda, Tanzania, and England – and so I don’t mind their gravel-infused look. I reach for a black sleeveless shirt (which prompts most of my neighbors to call me umusore – meaning a strong young man – as they seem intrigued by athletic looking arms, yes this is real life) and my Hendrix black pants. Like my shoes, these pants have been worn on at least 90% of my runs in Rwanda. Between the shoes, pants, and headband that I always run with, I realize how much a part of my routine and life this thing is – running, I mean. Yep, it’s time to run.

*5:21pm
I’m on the road, kicking dust right away. 20 minutes before, I wasn’t sure how I was going to force my body to move. But as with anything, once you get going you can find a rhythm and move along beautifully. This red-brown soil attaches to my skin much in the same way that children do here too. Fast and strong. After 5 minutes my ankles are caked with the remnants of the road. Welcome to dry season. I saw rain at my house last week though it was the first time I had seen imvura (rain) in months. I pass an old man tilling some small plots in the front of his mud-bricked house and I greet him with a small but chirpy “mukomere” – translated in English as you all be strong. Even though it’s late afternoon here the sun is still a force to be reckoned with. That, and like I said, dried out soil can be a pain to cultivate. Plus, “mukomere” is a common way to greet people around here (think hey y’all in Arkansas); it’s just what you do.

*5:34pm
Today I decide to forgo one of my planned routes (I have many; all of which I have given a special name so I can record that routes I choose daily) and run a spontaneous track in, out, and through banana fields in the cell next to mine, called Nkamba. Cell is an administrative term referring to a large neighborhood and community; Rwanda is broken down by country-province-district-sector-cell-village (for me, it would be Rwanda-East-Kayonza-Ruramira-Umubuga-Kajembe). First, I pass Nkamba center and wave as people watch me go by. Some are sitting in shade. A group of tailors are working on their old-time sewing machines. Goats are being led home from feeding in the open fields. Today I even see a man carrying materials for a tin roof on his bicycle. These materials had to be at least 12 feet long. It’s not that surprising to see this sort of thing but I am always boggled by the seemingly implausible strength of Rwandans. It appears they can push, carry, or pull anything. There’s a special spot in this road that brings the same children out to greet me every day, without fail. But it’s far more than as short “hello”. It goes like this:

Me: Mwiriwe abana! (Hello children!)
Children: IMPANO! IMPANO! IMPANO! Dore Impano! (Impano is my Kinyarwanda name; Look it’s Impano!
Me: Yambi. (Give me a hug)
Children: *hugs all around* Impano, tunga! (snap our fingers, Impano)
Me: *snapping fingers for all the children*
All of us together: YAYYYYY! (yes, I taught them this gem of an English expression)

It’s not a long interaction but it’s beyond enough to bring a smile to my face and brighten my day. I love those kiddos.

*5:48pm
I come to a clearing away from water fetching foot traffic (with the sun setting soon it’s last call to go and get water – be it from our small lake or a water pump source). On both sides of me all I can see is banana trees. Above, I lose my breathe as I see how the clouds have formed intricately around the sun. It’s perfectly golden at this time and the sky molds into one. Starting with baby blue hues to the East, the colors shift to murky purples and into a burning pink as you look closer to the sun’s domain. I keep running of course, but feel in awe as I absorb the scenery around me. The good. The bad. And many times, the beautiful.

*5:55pm
It’s Rwanda and to no surprise nothing goes as you initially plan. I really reach my stride as I pass the community football field and prepare to run a loop around the mosque. However, right as my legs are kicking into high gear, I run into (quite literally) one of my girls’ mothers. She greets me but is quick to mention the problems their family is having right now. This is not unusual. They are a family that I do genuinely love but struggle to trust. They’ve taken advantage on numerous occasions of the relationships I have built with their girls. And so she’s speaking and I’m praying. I pray I can listen without passing judgment. I pray fervently that I can show the love that I do have for her. We agree on a visit in a couple of days. Night is coming, after all, and I need to get home.

*6:05pm
Because I’m in the general vicinity, I decide to stop and greet Divine at her uncle’s home. I jog intently and call her name as I approach the front of her house and breathe heavily from the uphill incline. I see her smiling face appear in her small window and she delightfully says, “Yezu umukiza” – meaning “Jesus, the incomparable and perfect one.” It’s a Catholic term for excitement. I trek behind her uncle’s banana beer shop that is attached to their home and so inevitably I am welcomed by old men and women who have quite possibly been drinking for hours. They sit on the ubiquitous brown Rwandan benches. They are kind and warm drunks and so it’s not a big deal. Greet. Shake hands. Continue inside. Divine and I have a short conversation (unusual for us) in her 8×8 room. She expects me to prepare a prayer for our prayer group tomorrow (we go every Tuesday) at the Catholic Church. She’ll help me put it in Kinyarwanda after I write my ideas in English and I can share in front of the study group. No pressure. But I love that about her; she pushes me to try and do things for the sake of experience and living life fully. I tell her I will be ready. And I will.

*6:26pm
The rays of the sun have long gone and the sky is turning into a deep dark navy. I’m running among stars. If you look up for just a moment, you can truly become lost in it all. Nothing can beat a dark Rwandan sky. The stars and the moon provide small bits of light (along with the occasional motorcycle passing by or if the power is working, there is a string of streetlights near my house too). I am blaring one of my favorite songs on my IPOD shuffle- “Oceans from Rain” – and I’m trying not to stumble over small pivots and stones in the road. It’s my first time to run in the night. Going on walks, oh, I do that all the time (it’s always when Divine is walking me home). But running? Not until today. And it was calming, freeing, and fun. I was wearing my Lion King sweatshirt over my attire and so I was sweating substantially as I neared my adorable green house. I arrive home to no power but I don’t even mind. I do some exercises with some newly acquired resistance bands and heat the small water I have in my jerry can in order to take a bucket bath. My roommates are cooking, chatting, singing, and just existing. I get cozy in bed once I am clean with my headlamp, music, peppermint tea, and notebook.

I write.
*
I run so I can take it all in.
I write so I don’t forget.
*

british red #350

Standard

When I started wearing lipstick regularly about a year and a half ago, Yazina looked at me with her inquisitive eyes and commented emphatically, “teacher this decoration you have, ah-ah-ahh!”

At the time, I hadn’t yet learned the ins and outs of Rwanda’s language of sounds and noises set completely a part from the actual language of Kinyarwanda. You see, Rwandans can express themselves totally without words and by using various inflections, mumbles, and hums to get their point across. So, I had no clue what “ah-ah-ahh!” meant.

I prodded her by saying, “yes? This decoration (referring to my lipstick) is…?”

“is wonderful!!! Today you are beautiful very high in the face.”

I blushed and told her she was beautiful too.

It was around that time I became a firm believer in lipstick.

*

I love lipstick because it makes me feel awake, energized, and yeah, beautiful. Some women preach the mascara gospel or believe in the empowering effects of going au natural, but as for me, I know I’m ready to take on the day after a cup or three of coffee, writing in my journal, and adding a slight ‘pow’ of color to my lips in the mornings. I’ve worn lipstick nearly every day here. We’ve gone on a lot of journeys, lipstick and I.

I wore lipstick on the first day the girls’ had shoes at football practice, I had it on when I taught my very first lesson, and when I went to visit Michelle in England earlier this year I think I even applied two coats. This now strikes me as ironic because in British history, mostly in the 19th century, makeup of any sorts was not at all acceptable for any “respectable” woman. Thank God for progress.

They refer it to it as “bello” in my village, which could be some kind of French influenced word, but to be honest I’m not too sure. While I’ve never seen a woman in my village carrying around a tube of the stuff, occasionally my girls will have a purplish-brown tint on their lips. This comes from the small circles of gloss sold at boutiques and they take these little things everywhere. To GLOW camps, to church, and even to school. They too understand the powers of adding a bit of pizzazz to “decorate” their appearance.

Perhaps not fully understanding the stronghold my favorite lipstick has had in my daily life, one of our Peace Corps leaders in Kigali once suggested that I limit my use of lipstick in my community. We were having a conversation about integration and dealing with men and he delicately said that it was “advisable” to not draw even more attention to myself with the fire red lipstick I had smeared on. I chuckled, nodded, and thought to myself, “um. There is no way in hell I’ll be stopping to wear my red lipstick.” It’s not that I’m insubordinate, it’s just that I decided well before joining Peace Corps that to survive this experience I had to embrace the give and take. Visit people and eat their food? Absolutely. Refrain from drinking in public? Sure. Covering my knees when wearing clothes? I can do that. But, I want to also be who I am so there are some non-negotiables. As silly and small as it sounds, this was one of them.

And so maybe I should explain the other dimension lipstick – well, this particular red color – has in my life.

The red lipstick I have worn consistently while being a Peace Corps Volunteer is appropriately in a gold tube and is called “British Red,” number 350 from L’Oreal. Today, if you open it up you can instantly smell the flowery, old time fragrance. You would also have to use your finger to get any of the color; I have used it so much that it is nearly finished. But I just can’t move onto another color. I can’t rid myself of this is small golden encompassed treasure.

*

I was packing for Rwanda and searching through some of Grandma Jenny’s things. She was still alive, albeit in a nursing home unable to speak or move, and I was headed to the facility for the last time because I would leave for Rwanda the next day. I reached for a red leather purse that I found hidden away in a box and inside I found old receipts from a frozen yogurt shop, gum, sunglasses, and a half-full bottle of Chanel No. 5. It was so her; it’s like this bag had all these little things that represented a bit of who she was as a woman. And that’s when I found the lipstick. It was half-used and I tucked it into my pocket, intending to bring it along for the next couple of years. I wasn’t even sure that I would use it, but I figured it would be a good reminder of her while away.

The day I took the lipstick was the last day I saw my grandmother. Her cold and wrinkled hands filled mine as I said goodbye. Grandma had hung on for a long time as I think Newell’s do, but I knew when my time in Rwanda was over and I came home, she wouldn’t be there. I took in everything about her that I could. I lingered when I gave her a hug. I memorized the color of her pure blue eyes. And I also was sure to capture moments from when I was younger so that the memory of grandma was more about who she was before Multiple Sclerosis slowly wore away at her body. When I was alone in my car, crying into the steering wheel, I felt like I had missed something. I felt cheated of closure. Grandma, the woman who indescribably anchored me for much of my life at that point, would never hear my stories from this new journey in my life. She wouldn’t be there when I needed to call home because I was lonely. She wouldn’t see the friends I would come to deeply love in this country. And down the road, she wouldn’t be present as my life started to weave together all of the things from my past, present, and future. She died in October of that year.

So, this lipstick is grandma’s and is one of the most important things that came from her and continued on to Rwanda. The other things that I hold dear that are with me in my village are a gold ring from her mother and a small chipped wall decoration with West Highland White Terriers that says, “when you have a friend, you have everything.”

*

Last week, I experienced what I know will be one of my favorite Rwandan memories. Sometimes, you just know you’ll remember something forever.

I was visiting Divine’s family because her brother had broken is leg and came home from the hospital and I felt very strongly that Divine should be there, even if just for the weekend.

To help her family with the workload, I joined them in finding firewood and cutting down bananas from their endless amounts of banana trees on their land (ubutaka). We laughed and chatted and watched the sun leave the Eastern hills of Rwanda. Her sister helped place the pile of sticks on my head to carry home. I grasped above my head with both hands and was pleasantly surprised by my ability to keep it balanced. I mean, I’m no Rwandan who could do this job using no hands, but still. We walked the small and narrow brown paths back home to get cooking started. I was in the middle of the line of some seriously strong women – her mother, Divine, and her sister. This was so that Divine could keep an eye on me as she knows my night vision isn’t the best. I listened quietly as her mother and Divine discussed how grateful they were for my visit, how they would pull together as a family in this difficult time, and how it was simultaneously funny and beautiful that I was carrying firewood on my head. Funny because I’m a white girl in the middle of nowhere doing such a thing and beautiful for the same reason. I’m not above doing that or helping with chores just because of where I come from. Finally, a family that gets that.

I looked above at the stars, at the rolling landscape, overwhelmed with gratitude as I thought about my family. I thought about the family I have in Rwanda and the family back home that has raised me, loved me, and supported me for my entire life.

I smacked my lips, of course wearing that red lipstick, and remembered Grandma. Memories flooded back and they seemed to collide head on with the memories I was making in that moment. Love is so powerful sometimes, I think. It reaches far beyond our understanding. It’s so strong that the feeling of love you felt years before can come back and hit you in the exact same way.

I smiled as we finished the small journey home, indeed with firewood on my head, doing what the world might see as a menial task. It was much more than that. I felt a part of something. I felt connected. And as I found myself thanking God over and over again on that walk, it sort of felt like Grandma was there right with me.

*