My tears

That's so bad, gosh.

2012-01-20T01:23:00.001-05:00

Late last year I was watching a documentary with a group of black friends and family. Granted that we were watching the documentary while also chatting and catching up, but we were all quite unsure about the time period depicted in this documentary. They were talking about evolution(I think) of the human being and somehow intermingled their narrative with the lives of people in the Great Riftvalley. Thus, images of black people as they lived as cave people in close proximity to animals of the wild, were an adequate representation of the evolution of humanity as seen through this particular story teller's eyes. However, the documentary was laden with ambiguity about the timeline represented. The images of what appeared to be black and less evolved homo sapiens were interspersed with images of modern day rift valley, most notably the migration of the wildebeest - what is now noted as one of the "wonders of the world". By the end of this documentary, the wildebeest were juxtaposed with images of people who have been typically depicted as less evolved homo sapiens. Problem.

This documentary sparked a conversation of racial representation of black people with my friends and family. As we watched this documentary, I threw in comments made of the black person as seen in and through the white imagination - backward, less evolved, savage and wild, uncivilised, basic - all images that were present in this documentary. I told (some funny) stories of different diasporan Africans realities in their daily interaction with this white imagination and how they created narratives and actions of resistance - to the hearty laughter of my friends and family.

Yesterday, my colleagues and I were engaged in a conversation surrounding the popular video of East African musician Nameless, Coming Home which quite predictably evoked feelings of patriotism. We watched the images of Kenyan sports people representing their home land and now coming home victorious - or so the song tells us. The lone image of the white face in the sea of black faces raised passionate conversations of race, privilege, power, colonialism and authentic Kenyanness. The conversation was close to an end when one of those present remarked that they fail to understand the passion evoked in others by the issues of race and colonialism. As far as they were concerned, colonialism had happened, and we should get over and done with it and move on to the more immediate oppressions we face daily.

As I drove home after this conversation, I mused on our complacency as black people with regard to the oppressions we face because of our race and the inheritance of the colonial master's narrative in our lives. I find that for many many many black people I have interacted with in Kenya and other African countries, the most passionate reaction evoked from questions of racism and colonialism is "that's so bad, gosh." and then on to the next more pressing matter of overcoming the hurdles of our capitalist reality. Yet our world and reality is saturated with self-hatred and self-loathing taught to us by our colonial masters. And as very good students, we don't know we are entrenched in this cycle of self-hatred and self-loathing.

The daily acts of supplication and submission to the superior prowess of the white person, the adoration of the white form, the continued colonialisation and exploitation of our lands, the economic oppression realised because of racism, the internalised self-hatred and continued elevation of the white person's counsel, the in-fighting we continue to perpetuate as created by our colonial master's narratives and tactics, the continued worship to the white man's god and hatred of our ancestors......the list goes on and on. And we don't get angry. Instead, we are off to make the next quick buck to buy the newest gadget produced by the white man.

Racial oppression. Colonial oppression. That doesn't get us angry and spur us to de-colonise our minds, de-colonise our lands, de-colonise our realities, de-colonise our spiritual practice. FUCK! Black people, get angry.

In vain.

2011-11-06T11:10:00.002-05:00

On September 30^th 2011, I cut my hair. For the past 6 years I cared for, caressed, washed, twisted and loved my own hair. As part of my monthly routine, I would take the time to care for my hair, irrigating my hair with love and tenderness. I loved my hair.

There are women close to me, who have cut their hair as a symbol of change and to allow themselves to step into the change they envision for their lives. Watching them, the hair cutting has been an act of liberating themselves from a vision of themselves, to a new experience of their lives. The change, deeply longed for, has been wrought with difficulties and tensions. Yet the change remains deeply longed for and thus the difficulties and tensions embraced and overcome.

As this year began, my deepest being longed for changed; cried for change; clenched and stiffened in the face of sameness and routine. And therefore, change ruptured and tore into my being, turning my life over and beginning a new continuation. The outer trappings of my life took on new wheels, took on new visions, took on new commitments. The inner recesses of my being began to shift, move, ease into positions that would allow for the change inevitably coming my way – the change I longed for, the change I cried for.

As the year progressed, I lived change in my life. Some of the change was beautiful and made me fly. Made me stretch and embrace parts of my being that lay dormant, in hibernation waiting for the warm kiss of a spring rain. Yet with this beautiful change, pain and discomfort ensued for not all embraced my beautiful change. The butterfly spying out of the cocoon was shy to the world, and the world was not very tender to the emerging butterfly. Some of the change was uncomfortable; as I looked into the eye of a storm and realised the best I could do was temper that storm and hope as it hit, I would have the strength and wisdom to ride out the storm.

As the year wore on, I felt the stagnation creep into my self and bite into my being. My cowardly self returned and held my self hostage, held my being back from the possibilities allowed and the change desired. My desire for change, my longing for difference, my ardour for possibility pulled against my complacency, my need for security and the safety of routine – and my being was caught and torn apart with tears running down my face captured by my lover’s breast. Language to translate my heart and my being to speech that would be comprehensible to my ears and the ears that listened was beyond my grasp.

On September 30^th 2011, I cut my hair as a symbol of change, and to allow myself to step into the change I envisioned for my life. I cut ties with my need for security and the safety of routine. For a moment, I felt liberated, excited, motivated and thrillingly scared!

I realise that I had drawn a map that would allow me to safely step off the edge and fly, and when the map was incinerated by the complexities of life, I withdrew and curled myself into the grasp of routine and safety – arguing against stepping off the edge and flying. Back in my cocoon life happened, the storms bore down, the realities shouted; I stepped further off the edge and waddled slowly and deliberately back to the bosom of safety.

Peeking out of my cocoon, with the constant bearing down of storms and in the face of disappointment of self, I shed a tear at the lost possibilities of flight. My symbol of liberation was in vain; my vision of a changed life strangled and life stagnated.

In past lives, my desire to fly in the face of overwhelming fear was greater and fly did I. Yet now, I stagnate, paralysed by my fear of the unknown and my hesitation to trust. My fear and hesitation hurt my desires, strangle my possibilities and quench my intoxication with the limitless.

I shed my hair in vain.

Queer?

2011-10-12T15:56:00.001-04:00

Given my professional and personal interests over the past few years, I have found myself exploring and interrogating the varied expressions of sexuality that manifest for my friends and dear ones. A lot of my friends are on the straight and narrow - I'm a boy who is sexually attracted to a girl / I'm a girl who is sexually attracted to a boy. This notion has been reinforced by the culture in which we were raised (a nuclear family is mother, father and children) and the christian religious practice in which we were immersed (god created adam and eve). In the past few years, I have met many people who have transgressed these social and religious inculcations to deconstruct these very inculcations - from the definitions of gender and sex, to sexual attraction, sexual practice and sexual pleasure.

When exploring people's experiences of sexual attraction, in the somewhat more progressive circles, a response that has often been given to the question of sexual attraction is, "I am attracted to a person and the question of their gender and/or sex is not relevant to the attraction." Intrinsic to this response, I hear, I am attracted to a person despite their gender and/or sex. This was a position that sat comfortably with my search for meaning, understanding and language to express my sexual attraction. The comfort I found in that position ended. Now I find myself pursing new meaning, understanding and language to express my sexual attraction.

I tell a story.

Ngina*, a female identified individual, who has long stated that "I am attracted to a person and the question of their gender and/or sex is not relevant to the attraction" and is now dating a female-identified individual, was in a conversation with a loved one, Towet*. Towet, who is battling to come to terms with the homosexual relationship, explained that the only way she could make sense of this relationship was in light of the understanding that Ngina "is attracted to a person and the question of their gender and/or sex is not relevant to the attraction." and thus the gender and/or sex of Ngina's partner does not inform Towet's construction of their relationship. Towet is deeply steeped in a conservative religious tradition that firmly believes homosexuality is a sin. Half in jest, Towet proceeded to announce that she would teach her children to accept and love Ngina and her queer family under the premise that we are all sinners and Jesus loved sinners.

At that instance, Ngina realised that shortcoming of the comfortable description she had adapted to explain her sexuality. The fact that she spoke of her sexuality as an idea independent of the gender and/or sex of the one she loved did not begin to address the constructs of heteronormativity and homophobia in which Towet was steeped. As long as her partner was understood as a person, for whom their gender and/or sex was not relevant to the relationship, then Towet would not begin to understand the depth of Ngina's homosexual and queer relationship and thus interrogate her own homophobia and heteronormativity. Towet would not look at Ngina as a queer homosexual woman who lived a queer homosexual life. Rather, Ngina would remain a woman who was attracted to people irrespective of their gender and/or sex and her attraction to her partner inclusive of her gender and/or sex was lost on Towet. As long as the status quo was maintained, Ngina realised that the attempt to interrogate heteronormativity and homophobia is limited as long as the question of homosexuality and same-sex/same-gender loving is not discussed.

Ngina recognises that the shift in the conversation, to insist the attraction to her partner is inclusive of her partner's gender and/or sex will shift the conversation to a more uncomfortable space for Towet. It will bring to the fore the fact that Ngina is a queer homosexual woman who is loving another queer homosexual woman, and Towet will need to find ways to reconcile her love for Ngina and her religious belief system that tells her that the love between Ngina and her partner, and the family they create from that love is a sin. A daunting task that many continue to shy away from.

My story ends.

*Names have been changed to protect their identities.

Imperialist bastards

2011-10-11T04:36:00.001-04:00

So, the UK government issued this exciting news yesterday, all in a bid to aid in the struggle for the protection and promotion of the human rights of LGBTI persons in Africa.

In light of this news, my response:

I am outraged!

Aid to Africa already has it's issues of paternalistic imposition of western ideals of social and political organising on nations that are in need because of the existing financial infrastructure that exists to ensure that these nations are never not in need. This brand of financial colonialism has seen the death of leaders who dared dissent to the imposed financial infrastructure, as well as the death of local systems that worked. The Structural Adjustment Programmes of the 90s did very very little to help the millions of masses who continue to go hungry, lack access to healthcare, lack quality education, have no access to clean drinking water etc. etc.- all of which the SAP was supposed to swoop in fix and deal with.

That programme failed and the new agenda riding on the back of Aid to Africa,is the selling of their notions of human rights, democracy and good governance - notions developed and described in spaces outside of the African context. All because it is believed that this will ensure that the funds sent will be better utilised - case in point today's headline in the Nation.Hence, aside from these already problematic politics of Aid, the notion of cutting aid to African countries persecuting gays is an extension of already problematic issues surrounding Aid. First, this reads as a re-writing of the evangelisation agenda of the missionaries in colonial and pre-colonial Africa. Only this time, they are preaching the message of human rights of gay people. Not to detract from the message to suggest that there is no value to the message - the mode of communicating this message is deeply problematic as it is laden with paternalisation and imposition of a way of life. And this imposition on a people will be met with resistance. The message will not be heard, rather all that people will focus on is the fact that the west is imposing yet another ideal on the "barbaric" African people in need of civilisation. Given that homosexuality in Africa is already burdened with the stigma that it is a western importation and it's not African, this move does not in any way help the struggle but rather reinforces that homosexuality is indeed a western agenda that is being carried and protected by western nations.

Second, the role that western nations continue to occupy vis-a-vis Africa is insulting. There continues to be the feeling that the west needs to rescue Africa - without their assistance, and financial aid, we will wither and die into nothingness. Thus the myriad of struggles on LGBTI rights on the continent that are led by African people - LGBTI people and their allies - sex worker activists, feminists, human rights activists etc., continue to be minimised and the glory goes to these western entities that ride in on their horses to save the "savages". The struggle will be won by African people and their allies - allies who recognise that the struggle MUST be led by and directed by African people. These cowboy attempts at rescue are outrageous and seriously serve a blow to the struggle.

Third, there are the arguments that these funds that provide temporary relief to those whom the government resources are unable to reach - those who need the healthcare, the education and the clean water, will be severely affected to the detriment of these individuals. Hence, perhaps a utilitarian analysis would suggest that the cost of imposing these sanctions on the different nations would not touch the loudest voices of dissent but would only affect the already economically oppressed.

Finally, I beg to wonder what real social change will be won by this strategy. I turn to South Africa, a nation that has the one of the most progressive constitutions regarding issues of sexual orientation, yet hate speech, violence and rape of lesbians is a constant reality(amongst other forms of violence against women, people of colour and other oppressed peoples). Which makes me question whether imposed changes brought on by those who are at the top of our social pyramids actually brings about real change in daily interactions between people. Hence, the governments may parrot the politically correct speech, and get the money, but no changes will actually be implemented in the nations and oppressions and violations facing people because of their sexual orientation and gender identity will remain a reality for my people in the struggle.

Thus, all round, these aid cuts in African countries are problematic ideologically, politically and in the lived reality of peoples of these nations. I fail to see how this strategy will be of benefit to our struggles as African people.

Love

2011-10-10T03:19:00.000-04:00

Love had forsaken me. And now Love has found me.

In the past month, I have been showered by Love and reminded that Lady Love has been around me and within me. I had closed my eyes and turned my ear. Yet, Lady Love shook me to see her, to feel her, to tremble at her touch and be humbled by her resilience and persistence.

I spent a challenging, inspiring, life-changing week (or so), with some of the most beautiful people I will ever be privileged to Love. I find that I have relegated Lady Love to the pocket of heat, passion and sexual energy. In that pocket, and that alone, can I find Lady Love and bask in the warmth of her bosom-filled embrace. This week, I stepped into a realm of Love that moved me to see my failures, see my shortcomings and still find Love in the embrace of community. And this Love was not always warm and fuzzy - moments, several of them, of experiencing Love stung me, and pushed me to find me. I was uncomfortable and resisted the reality of Love. Yet, in experiencing this Love, I recognise that my veil remained lowered. And they loved me still.

Dancing with my lovers, laughing with my lovers, eating with my lovers. Examining how our Love will change the world. How our Love is revolutionary! Paul, in one of his few teachings that I carry with me, teaches, "Love is patient; Love is kind; Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends."

Another showed me Love. In the depths of my despair, when hope seemed reckless and tomorrow bore me great sorrow, my lover sat with me. Comforted me with her words and her lips. Held me when I did not feel I deserved to be held. When my ugliness could not be veiled, my lover loved me.

In my search for knowledge, I have stepped past Love, shunned Love, mocked Love and ignored the revolutionary power of Love.

I stand changed. Corrected. To love is to be a revolutionary. Love will change the world/is changing the world.

Stand with me. To Love.

I long to write of Love

2011-02-14T14:51:00.000-05:00

I long to write of love. The feeling as it rises within, and consumes within and without. I long to write of the rush, the excitement, the hurry to please and be pleased. I long to write of intimacy and romance. Pleasure and ecstasy. The simplicity to be. I long to write of love.

I long to write of love. The tremors that rise within thee and explode to consume all that is around thee. I long to write of giggles, and trembles. Murmurs and whispers. Love confessed to an ear that awaits and embraces the confession. The simplicity to be. I long to write of love.

I long to write of love. The fears that withhold thee, and cares that prevent thee. The love that was to protect thee then turned and destroyed thee. Yet, love was resilient and became all triumphant. Love was victorious and banished all barriers. It remained. The simplicity to be. I long to write of love.

Yet love does not long for me. Love remains elusive. A whisper that passes through me never dwells in me. I find my search delirious. My chase chaotic, unsettled, continuous. Love stabs me as I run to catch thee. Love tempts me with whispers of what might be. Love turns away from me with contempt to pour down on another more deserving soul. Love, why has thou forsaken me, deserted me, abandoned me. Love, for you I bared my soul to another and another and another. And yet you remain aloof, giving yourself to others. And I. Bereft.

I long to write of love. Of love to feel. Of love to share. Of love to give.

I long to write of love. Yet, Love longs to write of you and never to write of me.

the rush

2010-12-09T22:06:00.000-05:00

I had forgotten how to feel. The rush, the unfamiliar. The tingle desire, clenching of my sex is remembered. I had forgotten how to feel. Did not trust I could feel. The feeling had left. Given up. Deserted. Mutinied. In the rush to feel, the desire for the tingle, I settled and took what was tossed to me. It was sufficient. For now.

Yet the clenching of my sex had not forgotten me. The first touch was unsure. Did I feel? Could I feel? It was the rush of the crowd, the passing of the people. The press of the masses. No! It was a giggle – a tease. She was not really feeling. Or was she? Was I? The tease and the giggle grew up. It became more than I had felt. I would look around to see. Would she come and tease and giggle? Her soft caress. Runs up my leg, up my thigh, up...

I turn away. The feeling that had left, that given up, that had deserted and mutinied. Is re-called, re-felt, re-membered. The forgotten demands remembrance. I feel. I feel.

But the feeling is unsure. Peeps through the door. Do I march on to the pain I know, I have known. I embrace and have lived. The same appears. The distance is true. Yet that does not begin to speak to it all. There is more. We are unsure. Stepping into the unfamiliar. We, not we, me. I look and see the smile, her smile, directed away. To another. Another tastes her. Another feels her. Another.

A new rush to feel. The desire for the tingle? Do I settle for that which is tossed?

She remains. In my heart I feel her and know her with another. Want her while she remains with another.

I want to feel the rush, the forgotten, the tingle, desire, clenching of my sex. I want to feel.

my Rant my Rave

2010-06-28T02:20:00.001-04:00

inhale...
two of the most difficult things to deal with in humanity are people who don't say what they mean, and people who don't do what they say they will.
i do not exist to validate your experience of life, i do not exist to mould and shape your existence of life, i do not move in response to your view of life. I know that. You know that. Hence your shallow and narrow attempts to make me assume that this is my role in your life is just that...shallow and narrow. we both see through it hence drop it.
i don't read minds. i don't want to read minds. your saying something and then expecting me to figure out exactly what it is you want is asking of me more than i ever expect to give to you. hence say what you mean or get the fuck out of my life.
saying what you think i want to hear, and then turning around and living your life as you assume is best and most efficacious for your version of life is narrow and selfish. I have not asked you to play the piper's tune, hence your pressure to do so is completely beyond me. you have a version of life you have chosen to live, thus your assumption that playing to my tune somehow mollifies my regard for you is naive and extremely simplistic. if it is my respect you desire, be who you want to be! not the version you think i demand of you.
you are who you are. live up to that. if you fail at that, there is very little to offer you. charting your life's course based on the people around you to please them will result in an extremely schizophrenic personality. if one demands that of you, then check them. if you give that to the world, check yourself.
you are free to judge me, demand more of me, disagree with me, hate on me...that i can handle. however, when your version of self is so distorted based on what you perceive the world demands of you...i will step back from you.
humanity tires me...humanity drains me...so for now, i step back from humanity and take the bare minimum. figure yourself out, then consider seeking me out!
exhale...

kipande and pass laws re-defined

2010-06-17T03:20:00.002-04:00

It stands alone. This exhibition. My memory of this exhibition. I trust most visitors will not empathise with the reality captured in this stand-alone exhibition. For most visitors, this is not their reality. Three mabati walls. An open front. A lone desk. A sign - "visa applications". This exhibition stood at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington D.C. I had to go through this process; the process captured in the stand-alone exhibition, to gain access to view the stand-alone exhibition. Most of those who emphathise are barred from viewing this exhibition.

Africa's colonial masters introduced the restriction of movement to our cultures. On our land, our own land, we needed a piece of paper to move from the zones allocated to us by our colonial masters, to spaces where we could ease the life of our colonial masters through our slave labour. Kipande laws in Kenya were passed in 1915 and enacted from 1919 where Africans males over the age of 15 had to wear their kipande around their necks when moving from their reserves into the white man's legally protected areas. For the colonial master, this kipande allowed them to keep track of their African labour force and ensure that labour contracts could never be broken by the enslaved but only by the master. After virulent protests from Africans, the kipande laws were repealed in 1947, only to be re-introduced during the state of emergency to control the movement of those labelled as insurgents.

South Africa's apartheid system entrenched pass laws to dictate and direct the movement of Africans and Indians. The pass laws were introduced to control the movement of Africans and Indians in white controlled urban areas. In addition, the pass laws regulated the labour of Africans where they were forced to settle in areas to provide a steady stream of labour to their colonial masters.

Years after most African countries have gained independence from their colonial masters, and have free run of their land, the laws of access have been re-defined, all in the name of protecting the nation state. To gain access to the foreign lands, we are forced to supply these governments with a plethora of documents to prove that we are able to both finance our visit to these hallowed lands, and have enough incentive to bring us back home to our less than hallowed lands. In Kenya, there are always queues of people outside the American embassy and the British embassy waiting to undergo the humiliating visa interview process. This image is replicated, to a lesser extent, in the embassies and consulates of other western nations.

Yet, when the roles are reversed and it's now the citizens of these western nations looking for access to these less than hallowed lands, all one needs is enough money to purchase the ticket and pay the visa fee(purchased at the port of entry to these less than hallowed lands), which averages 25USD in comparison to the exorbitant average of 80USD or more demanded by the embassies of these hallowed lands. This is the fee charged after our Ministries of Foreign Affairs have actively sold the image of tourist paradise to entice the white people to visit these less than hallowed lands. Where the kipande and the passes allowed African (males) to move from the African reserves to the white-controlled areas, the visa now allows African peoples to move from their African homes to the white-controlled lands.

Yet what saddens me the most, is not the inequality and injustice replicated and re-defined in the visa laws between the western nations and African nations. It is the internalised segregation that we African nations now impose on each other, in the name of protecting our nation states. To gain access to most of these African nations, I find myself requiring a visa to be granted access - turning the kipande and pass law systems against ourselves. Controlling the movement of Africans has become the responsibility of government state organs and is protected in the name of nation-state interests. As African nations, in the absence of our colonial masters, we have become even better at protecting the interest of our colonial masters than the colonial masters themselves. The students have truly surpassed their teachers.

fly bounce sit still notbe

2010-06-10T04:22:00.000-04:00

I made a clean break from the breast of the religious teaching of my childhood. I made a clean break three years ago. I had always questioned and probed the boundaries of my belief systems but I had never stepped outside the sacred bounds to venture (bravely, timidly) into the unknown and undiscovered lands. Since deserting the breast, I was overcome by fear...walking away from the familiar... I was overcome by possibilities...walking away from the familiar...I was jumping, cowering, cheering and veering.

Liar. The break was not clean. I wanted it to be clean. Have no inkling of remorse, no suspicious questioning of my choices. Walk confident and sure into the new way I was birthing.

(exhale). The fear was never debilitating, it was never overwhelming. It hummed in the back. Resonating softly. Lightly clouding the birthing. Never forgotten.

The new space I move in allows me to bounce and fly. Sit still and Not be. To be. It is constantly shifting, with No foundation that is unwavering. The writing is done in pen and is erasable. The writing is also done in blood. To remind me of lived experiences and their supremacy. My lived experience births this space. Your lived experience births this space. Our lived experience births this space. The writing is in blood.

From this space, I watch those who suckle from the breast of the religious teaching of my childhood. And see them hate in the veneer of love. See them kill in the veneer of love. See them destroy in the veneer of love. The lesson of love: Love God, Love your neighbour...with all your being, as you love yourself. No ifs, No buts! Yet the hate. killing. destruction. Continues. why?

Language has been deployed to explain, to justify: HATE the sin. love the sinner. HATE the sin. love the sinner.

Murder - not guilty!

Homophobia - not guilty!

Sexism - not guilty!

Racism - not guilty!

Colonialism - not guilty!

Patriarchy - not guilty!

Hatred - not guilty!

Murder - not guilty!

Why? and the unmitigated results

2010-05-04T04:47:00.001-04:00

I have been having recurring battles with our health insurance provider. While I get that profit is the underlying motivation and that which dictates what will and will not be covered, I have found myself unrelentingly on the questioning side of their services. My organisation has pushed the limits of their service provision requesting they provide services for less than conventional circumstances. My anger with our health insurance provider is not in their provision of the bare minimum health services, seeing how profit is their bottom line after all. I seethe because prior to renewing our contract with them this year, they promised us the sun and were very warm and welcoming in their demeanor as they swore they would provide us with extremely comprehensive services that would meet the specific needs of their clientèle. Three months down the line, the sun is no longer in the universe of their promised services as they return to the company line of profit as the priority. The company drones spewing the crap of their company line regurgitate the reasons drafted by the doctors on the company payroll that will ensure the profits of this health insurance company are astronomical and have no considerations for the lived reality and health considerations of those whom they purport to cover. So you give this said health insurance provider exorbitant amounts of money, hoping that they will cover a myriad of health conditions. Upon embarking on this new excursion to better healthcare, you soon discover their list of "uncovered" health care. On the scale of health care, one would see the value in testing my heart, blood sugar and collecting what they term, a comprehensive medical history, emphasis on comprehensive. However, seeing how I am more than my comprehensive medical history, my heart and blood sugar, I would figure that taking time and care to check the other organs in my body, would encompass a full body annual medical exam. To my consternation, I discovered that my health insurance provider would rather see my writhing in agony since I have cervical cancer, as opposed to taking a pap smear that would indicate this earlier on in my medical history, or providing me with prescribed multi-vitamins to prevent me from the constant angst of a compromised immune system. Oh, well I figure that this is a small price to pay in the grand scale of health care. At least, they caught that my heart was not perfectly functioning and that my blood sugar was too low.

Yet, even as I thought through my anger towards my health insurance provider, I was astounded by my blatant disregard for the millions upon millions of Kenyans who do not have health insurance and can barely afford to see a medical doctor - and then only in cases of severely compromised health. I wonder if I am allowed to yell and scream at this capitalistic greed of my health insurance provider, given the privilege that I am afforded by having a health insurance provider to yell and scream at. Would the most just action be to renege on this provision and rather fight a system that prevents millions upon millions of Kenyans basic healthcare, such that conversations of pap smears and provision of multi-vitamins is selfish and yet another manifestation of the capitalistic greed that I abhor in my health insurance provider. Or is the most just action in this case my chosen cause of action which is to constantly push the health insurance provider to live up to their testified provision of resources to meet comprehensive health care for their clientèle?

Nonetheless, this morning I am bone weary by my asking why, and constantly banging my head against a steel door that remains closed to my need-driven questioning. So for now, I have laid down my arsenal of whys and instead will take the shoddily delivered insurance that is extremely careful to ensure that their profit margins remain ample enough such that their executive members of staff remain housed in the very embrace of luxury.

Self-Aggrandizement

2010-03-01T12:56:00.003-05:00

Society has taught us to pull ourselves to the fore. The way to succeed and stand out from the masses is to be better than those around me. To constantly be better than all those around me. Thus, for one to be the best, one has to be extraordinary. One need not ask "do you know who I am" since it is clearly self evident to all the masses before you.

Well, I beg to differ with this societal teaching. This evening on my way home, I bumped into a (gentle)man who had a completely distorted sense of self. His elevated sense of self worth was clearly evident to the man, but (un)fortunately, all those around him were not privy to this revealed truth. In a battle for a seat in the matatu, this man suffering from a severe case of self-aggrandizement, turned and announced that he was not going to participate in any nonsense, did we not know who he was. Looking down his pert nose, the young man declared "mimi sio raia rejareja"(am not an ordinary citizen) and hence we were obliged to step aside and bow to his superior status - his not being ordinary and all.

My initial reaction was irritation and I felt a quick rise of ire. However, I stepped aside and let the (gentle)man take the seat he clearly deserved, seeing how he was not ordinary and all. On the ride home, after the lowering of my initial ire, I contemplated the implications of constantly working to raise ourselves above our fellow humans. From my understanding of social justice, perhaps the idea of sitting with the masses and identifying with the masses, is crucial for any fight for justice. Thus as I strive for justice, if I find myself constantly struggling to raise myself above the masses and to declare "mimi sio raia rejareja" then perhaps my search for self-actualization may raise me above the masses but my fight for justice will be lost. The trouble with pedestals, I find, is that they must rest on something. In this perspective, as I struggle to raise myself above the masses, I will be resting my pedestal on the backs of my fellow peoples. In doing that, then my rise to glory will cost many many the sweat off their backs and they will need to stay on the lower levels to prop up my pedestal.

Nonetheless, I have heard that it is possible to rise without trampling on the masses.This theory holds that in rising up, I rise with all those around me. Well, I am yet to see a working example of a peoples where the ascent of one, was coupled with the assent of all.
Thus for now, I step back to pause in awe at the (gentle)man I bumped into this evening and plead to all those who hear me, remind me to strive to identify with all those around me and sit on the lower levels as we contemplate how to break the hierarchy. Should I forget, remind me I would be loathe to declare, "mimi sio raia rejareja!"

Racial Education

2009-02-07T22:53:00.002-05:00

I never thought of myself as a black woman. I knew I would be a woman one day - a woman who would do a whole lot more than have the ruling hand that rocks the cradle. Yet, I never thought of myself as a BLACK woman. Well, I got radically racially educated when I stepped into the US of A. As a naive (sic) Kenyan girl, I was constantly reminded of the color of my skin. The not-so-stealthily performed maneuvers to ensure that I was never left alone and unwatched in the large department store lest I steal any of the oh-so-valuable merchandise. Questions from well-meaning friends about my self awareness as a black woman. Always ensuring that I had my college ID with me because as a black woman downtown late at night, well shit could happen, racial kind of shit. Yet my forced education cunningly taught me that racial stereotyping both within and without a racial group was rampant and disastrous. I caught myself making gross generalizations about Black folk, White folk, Asians and Latino(a)s. And I took it all in stride. This was part of my education about race.

Popular culture has also been a significant force in my education about race and racial relations. I have just finished watching Step Up 2 The Streets - yet another dance movie ala Save the Last Dance. I have always enjoyed watching dance movies, staring in ruptured awe at the complex choreography that I will try to imitate later on in preparation for my debut to the dance circuits. Prior to my racial education, I would have never thought to critically analyze the coded messages popular culture so subtly propagates. Step Up 2 The Streets is loaded with racial messages. My scanty knowledge of hip hop music and dancing (dare I call it break dancing) points to it having originated from the African American Experience of life in the US. The gathering to dance in spaces not recognized as licit dancing spaces was saved for those without a pass to the licit dance spaces. There have been movies made about this particular aspect of culture, but until the dominant culture turned its gaze upon the African American Experience and "borrowed" the aspects of the culture it deemed tenable, this particular expression of the culture, battling it on the streets, did not make it into any box office hits. Save the Last Dance and all the slew of movies made since them that borrow from the idea of battling have called attention to this previously hidden aspect of American life. Yet, Step Up 2 The Streets takes the borrowing further.

***Spoiler Alert***The plot of the movie revolves around a young white girl whose mother passed away and she found family with a dance crew that battles on the streets of Baltimore. With a few flicks of the pen, the screenwriters managed to create an untenable situation where our young white heroine will be forced to move away from her family(made up of a somewhat racially diverse group but headed by a strong handed black man) or attend MSA(some preppy dance and art school in the line of Juilliard) to learn how to dance. A few flicks later, our young heroine is kicked out of her dancing family because of her commitments to MSA and her passion to dance leads her to form a new motley crew of MSA students who were not allowed to express their true creative spirits due to the restrictive environment of MSA. Ultimately the crew headed by our young heroine and her soon to be disclosed lover, a young white man who is the hero of the movie, battle the heroine's former crew and help bring back the true essence of battling in the streets. The new crew our young white heroine and hero form is racially diverse with representatives from all the major recognized racial groups - Caucasian, those of African descent, Asian and Hispanic.

Yet even in this newly imagined racially homogeneous(sic) future where the arts allow people of all different racial backgrounds to co-exist and create art peacefully, the leaders of the pack, those who spur us on to greater heights and challenge the existing sense of complacency, are white folk. In this newly imagined and heightened future, Step Up 2 The Streets would have, an experience that is African American has been appropriated to create yet another moment for the dominant racial group to come out on top and create a villain out of black people. The white people rush to rescue even the black folk from denigrating what they created. Well, where would black folk be without the incessant rescuing? Look at the world and see what a great job the dominant race has done in ensuring colored folk remain constantly dependent on their goodwill and generosity - otherwise how would colored folk get themselves out of the jams they self create?
My racial education continues...

growing up

2009-01-25T20:10:00.001-05:00

As I grow older, about 88 years old now, I find myself learning more and more about myself each day. I always figured that I knew myself and was very easy with the "I will NEVER...." statements, to only swallow them several years later. However, at this ripe ol' age of 88, I am constantly amazed by the depths of growing up and learning about myself that I still have before me. Talking to my peers, I find that we are measuring growing up by milestone events such as getting married or engaged, getting a job and the oft-dreamed of financial independence and having children - markers that have been ascribed and described by greater society. Yet, I rarely hear us speak of the choices we are forced to make - choices that place us in a definitive path that may or may not be our preference. I rarely hear us speak of the moments when we grow into yet another facet of our personality. I rarely hear us speak of actions that make us people we admire or despise.
It could be simpler to measure our growing up by the socially ascribed markers. Yet, that is taking the short cut to become who we might be. If we forge ahead and mark our growth and maturity by the fears over impending decisions, or the laughter over poorly crafted moments, we may be closer to discovering who we really are, and as we jump through the hoops placed by society, we will be doing so on our terms and marching to become who we want to be - painful and lonely as that march may be.
where is your march taking you?

talons of fear

2008-11-09T19:53:00.004-05:00

i sit in the dark. rocking myself back and forth. back and forth. back and forth. all alone, my fears tear me inside. my fears begin to grow. they swell and grow. they swim around and then bind themselves as one. it weaves and swerves around me. my fear is all around me. its around me enveloping me holding me in its powerful embrace. i have no place to run. i cannot hide. so i close my eyes. i hope that the fear will vanish, evaporate back into the night. yet it holds me tighter. clutches me closer in its talons. i feel its nails biting into my skin, through the thin layer of my dress. it begins to peel away my dress. the fear within me paralyzes me. i cannot move. yet i feel that motion, and that alone, can conquer the fear that envelopes me. i now sit naked before my fear. it sees me as i was born. i look down at myself. this nakedness is new. i have never seen myself as i am bared before my fear. my fear has peeled away my dress and peeled away my masks. i am bare. in my nakedness i find the courage to look at my fear. i look into my fear. staring into my fear. lost in the cold embrace of my fear. i shiver and shake. tears run down my face. streaming down my cheeks, they splash onto my breast. my fear is within. making me shake. i shake. i shiver. greater motion eludes me. the motion that allows me to break the cold embrace. yet that motion requires a strength i immediately lack.
i remain in the dark. in the cold embrace of my fear. i feel the talons of my fear biting into my new bared flesh. and motion remains fleeting. i remain in the dark

Dancing on the Streets

2008-11-06T21:44:00.002-05:00

The air was palpitating with exhilaration. Tears unashamedly ran down the faces of all those gathered. We hugged and hollered, cheered and cried, laughed and loved. The announcement of the first Black president of the United States of America was a moment few believed would be seen in our lifetime. And Americans all across the nation gathered to celebrate history. In the midst of all this celebration, the Kenyan government declared Thursday November 6th, 2008 a public holiday to celebrate the victory of Kenya’s son. It is hard to remain ecstatic after this announcement. The jubilation evident in Kenyans because of the victory of a man whose father was birthed in the same land is understandable. Yet it leaves me deeply troubled. Most of the Kenyans celebrating this victory will never get the chance to step on the ground that their Kenyan son will govern. Most of the Kenyans celebrating this victory will have very little in their immediate realities altered by this revelation. Yet they dance. The distant relation to the president-elect of the United States was enough to bring business to a halt in the market along the shores of Lake Victoria to allow the locals a chance to ‘vote’ for the president-elect, an election he won with a landslide majority. While these actions may seem absurd if not amusing to most of you, the actions of these Kenyans deeply sadden me.

The results of the 2002 elections in Kenya filled Kenyans with deep, abiding hope. We believed that the tyranny and torture evident in the reign of the former president were behind us, and our forecast promised progress and prosperity. The results of the 2007 elections dashed every bit of hope that remained. Kenyans hacked each other to death. We raped our mothers and sisters; killed our children and destroyed our homes. Propelled by hate-filled propaganda, we turned into hired assassins for those who filled our august parliamentary offices. The physical and psychological harm we inflicted on each other was devastating. Yet the deepest wounds delivered are those that killed our hope. The crest of hope riding on the election results of 2002 was destroyed and we were left clutching the tattered remnants of a dream for a whole Kenya.

The memory of the violence at the beginning of the year is raw and unresolved. All attempts to find and prosecute the perpetrators of the violence are stalled by political gimmicks as the expected finger pointing and deprecating name-calling begins. Victims of the violence who were chased from their homes remain homeless, existing on the mercy of benevolent family and neighbours. Nonetheless, the celebration that took place earlier today and continues to happen across the nation highlights the resilience and strength of the Kenyan people. My people have faced some of the greatest challenges of the human race – rising prevalence rates of HIV/AIDS, debilitating poverty and staggering illiteracy – yet each day presents a new chance to overcome. And without fail, we will overcome. What Kenya lacks are leaders who understand the Kenyan vision, who can harness the Kenyan strength and who can lead us in heralding our triumphant future. In the absence of these leaders, we find ourselves turning to a man whose father was birthed on our soil. Young Kenyan children tell themselves that if a man who shares our birth place can rise to the highest office in the land, then we too can work to raise our nation to the highest heights. We find the visionary leadership we lack in our own home grown leaders in our Kenyan son, Barack Obama.

Yet, these words should shame our political leadership. The self-evident absence of a leader whose deepest love is for the nation and not for personal gain should break the proud sauntering of our august politicians. While some may have wondered if there was a fatal flaw in the Kenyan people that prevented our achievement of greatness, the triumph of Barack Obama unequivocally silences them. The victory of the son of Kenya provides hope and a model of visionary leadership. Yet if all the home grown politicians insist on offering such mediocre leadership, then the hopes of the Kenyan people will never be realized. The dancing on Kenyan streets because of our son’s victory is the cry for honourable leaders. We want to dance because, as a nation, we have overcome HIV/AIDS. We want to celebrate because, as a nation, we have conquered poverty. We want tears of joy to run unashamedly down our cheeks because every Kenyan has the opportunity to become who they want to be. We want to declare a public holiday in our nation because of the victory of Our nation. We want to hold each other as the hope of a nation is birthed in our hearts and in our sight.

vanguard of the mold

2008-11-03T22:03:00.004-05:00

The most pernicious thing about any form of oppressive -ism be it racism, sexism, colonialism or heterosexism is the way the oppressed people internalize the oppressive ideals and ideas and turn it against themselves and those like them.
I tell a story.

The young girl had come far. Most of those around her looked at her in astonishment. How did one who looked like her from a home like hers come to be in a place like this? She was asked that question over and over. Sometimes the question was direct. Often it was the quizzical raised eyebrow when one heard where she was from and where she was right now. She never worried about the raised eyebrow. Of course it made sense that everyone around her was surprised by her story. She didn't quite fit in with the mold. Thus the mold had to be adjusted to fit her in.

She found herself trying harder than others. She had to prove that she did fit in the mold. She found herself feeling the failures deeper than others. She had to prove that she did fit in the mold. She found herself losing more of herself than others. She had to prove that she did fit in the mold.

Yet the most destructive was to come. When her family was in the space she now occupied, she felt embarrassed and ashamed. Her family had not worked as hard as she had to try and fit in the mold. Her family reminded all those around her that she didn't quite fit in the mold. Her family was less than those around her - those who had told her she was less than they were. Now she represented Them to her family. She told her family that they were less than she was, and they were less than They were. they had to try harder than other families. they were less. Her masters had taught her well. Now she was the vanguard of the mold.

My story ends.

I am less than the others around me. I am not as prettysmartwhiterichstraightchristianliberalmaleeducated as they are. I am less than the others around me. I am less than They are.

the short end of the skirt.

2008-10-14T21:43:00.000-04:00

I am surprised at my surprise that the woman's body is yet again the location of politicized christian debate. Two days ago I watched the news clip informing us that Neno Evangelical Church placed a poster on the door of its church with pictorial representation of what dressing is appropriate for women to wear in the oh so sacred space of their church building. I remember two pictures of women wearing a short tight skirt and the other wearing tight skirt with a thigh high slit.While I recognize that it is entirely possible to walk away from the congregation if one finds the necessity to clearly delineate appropriate attire for women, and women alone, insulting, the action of the church leaders points to a greater issue in society, I would argue.
As soon as my breasts popped out for all to see, I was suddenly classified as this sexual being whose main purpose in life was to entrap trusting and naive men with my breasts and sensuality. This burden was laid to me even before I understood the fact that my breasts could possibly elicit excitement from men(again, this was in an assumed completely hetero-sexist environment). At the tender age of 12, my church leaders, my societal care-takers and my teachers implored me that I must be careful in how I dress so as to avoid stumbling the young man. I was told that it was my responsibility to police the man's sexuality since I am my brother's keeper. And in all the years since then I am constantly reminded that my body is the location of this great sexual pull that I must constantly protect from the gaping stare of men around me. My sexuality is this whirling tornado that must be curtailed.
This says nothing of the fact that more often than not the people making these rules and regulations are men. The male leaders of most of Christianity, the very people at the center of writing, translating and interpreting scripture for us, teach us that women must be dressed appropriately and conservatively so as not to send them into a frenzy of lust. Men, more often than not, are the very people dictating what I can and cannot do with my body. This is often buttressed by the argument that men are naturally visual creatures and they are hard-pressed to control what they see and the "natural" lusting that happens after this visual stimulation. I am not in any way attempting to dispute the science or whatever hocus pocus is used to legitimate this argument. My point is different.
Why is the woman's body constantly the site of such heated debate? Why is it soooo common in Kenyan society to raise eye-brows, at the very least, about decent dressing and such hogwash? In the appeal to this imposed standard of decency, women are constantly encouraged to dress in a manner that is "appropriate to the setting" - where yet again, often the standard of decency and appropriateness is set by a room full of men.
Ok, so I may be the only woman who goes against the "scientific" norm that women are naturally aroused by touch and not by sight, but the sight of Will Smith half naked, chest gleaming and dark sunglasses on, leaves me panting, out of breath. So should I then impose my inability to control the translation of my visual urges to my nether regions on my dear brethren and ask that men dress decently? Or is that too much of an imposition of my burdens? Should I follow the example of Neno Evangelical Church, once I recruit my church of adherents and tape to the door pictorial representations of what is appropriate for men to wear to church, and turn back any men daring to oppose the hierarchy. I am sure I can find some biblical backing to support my position. Then, we can move the site of so much politicizing of the female body over to a new locale and see what we can learn, if anything.
In my opinion it is absolutely ludicrous to preach of a Jesus that accepts the prostitute, the leper, the tax collector and the ostracized on the one hand, while keeping those whom the same Jesus they preach of would turn away from participating in the communal action of the worship because of how the women, and the women alone, are dressed because ostensibly it prevents the men from fully engaging and participating in prayer and worship. The schizophrenic Jesus that they purport to preach about is a distortion of the christian faith they hold so dear. Let's spend a bit more feeding the poor who cannot walk through the doors of Neno Evangelical Church instead of focusing all this energy on the women's body.

Losing at love

2008-10-12T10:59:00.004-04:00

It's been a while since I wrote about love. Well, I fear that I may have lost all the little faith I had in love. As a kid I was never too sure what love was all about. I read my fair share of romantic novels, cognizant of the reality that love rarely, if ever, manifests itself as the authors of the books would have us believe. Yet, while I may have had my doubts about the love they books professed, I never doubted that I would find my version of love someday.

I am on the younger side of my life. Yet, as I think about the opportunities presented to me by the 'gods of love' I fear that it simply served as a prologue to the life I may live without love. Love is difficult - of that I am sure. I know that it takes compromising, arguing, sharing, sacrifice, dying of self and more compromising. Yet, people keep searching for love, keep fighting to have love. I figure this points to the value of love in human life. To share parts of yourself you would not ordinarily share with one you did not love allows you to come to a fuller knowledge of yourself. To have a person to depend on through it all, the good and the bad, makes the fighting worth the hassle. To have someone to keep you warm at night, and to help you through the cold months, makes the sacrifice seem minimal.

Yet, as I look at my life and think about the lessons I have learned through my losses and gains, I wonder if my attempt to find love is futile. Even as I say MY attempt to find love, I gag at the implied self-action that is not true. I have been a victim of my circumstances as far as love-finding is concerned. I waited to be chased and pursued, he would call me and let me know if he was interested. I was the woman who sat and waiting, all the while fidgeting furiously, to have the man call the shots and offer me the chance to declare what I felt for him. Granted I took risks, told the man I cared when it would have been easier to walk away, told the man to slow things down when it was too much to handle, told the man to leave me alone when I was not ready to handle - yet it was always in the safety of knowing the man cared.

Now I stand alone, staring at the bleak future of what love may present, and contemplating what love has brought. I wonder if I am making the proverbial mountain and speaking of losing at love when I may be too young to make such a categorical statement. Or am I voicing the fears of one who has begun to see the contours of her life and fears that they do not bear the marks of a shared life? Am I speaking out of turn or is my voiced fear legitimate? I fear that I have had my share of love, I have lost at love and now must learn to live without love.

the spot.

2008-09-24T10:30:00.003-04:00

I find myself staring at a tiny discolouration on the wall with all that I have and all that I am, and try what I may, I cannot get myself to look past the tiny discolouration to observe the beauty of the wall all around me!

The spot has a smooth edge, that resembles a floating head...now it looks more like a young pig. Its changing again. Now it bears an uncanny resemblance to my sister...now a flower...oh, it's a phone...ok, back to the floating head. It keeps changing, moving, morphing. Its dynamic. The spot has been the focus of my attention and try what I may, I cannot get myself to look past the tiny discolouration to observe the beauty of the wall all around me!

If I am silent enough for long enough, I am sure that I will hear what the spot has to say. I remain silent..........oh stop thinking so loudly, you won't hear what the spot has to say. Silence..................all I hear is my breathing - my loud, repetitive, annoying breathing. Maybe if I hold my breath then the spot will speak to me in the silence. Shhh................Oh how do I stop my beating heart, just for a second. All I hear is the incessant boom! boom! boom! of my heart. Shit! The noise prevents me from hearing the spot - the spot that has been the focus of my attention and try what I may, I cannot get myself to look past the tiny discolouration to observe the beauty of the wall all around me!

Well, if I can't see the spot, maybe I will get past my fixation. So, here goes. My eyes are shut. There it still is, in the eye of my mind - the spot. It resembles the floating head...oh the floating head is growing...its getting bigger and bigger. It has filled my entire focus and its HUGE - a huge, scary, terrifying head. It begins to swallow me, oh dear me that mouth is huge...my eyes fly open and i am back staring at the spot - the spot that has been the focus of my attention and try what I may, I cannot get myself to look past the tiny discolouration to observe the beauty of the wall all around me!

Well perhaps that is all I can see for now. I can only see this spot and instead of fighting this fixation, I need to learn the contours of that spot, embrace that spot and share my most intimate moments with the spot. Then I will begin to see the wall all around. Yet for now I find the spot has been the focus of my attention, and try what I may, I cannot get myself to look past the tiny discolouration to observe the beauty of the wall all around me!

Me me me ! ! !

2008-09-21T20:31:00.004-04:00

I have been selfish. It has all been about me. It continues to be about me. I am selfish.

I sit in a classroom and talk about inequity and injustice. I am torn by imperialism, racism, classicism, and sexism. I want to rise up and wipe the slate clean. I want to re-write the story. I want to create a new reality, a better reality. I want to give creation another chance. I learned about all this sitting in a classroom, or on my bed reading about the blatant discrimination. I read and heard. This world is fucked up.

I have taken to running. At the end of my day I come to my house, change to my running clothes, strap on my ipod and run. The route I follow does not have others running, at least I have not seen others running. Those I see, when I see others, are seated on their porches or playing on the street. This is how involved I am in my community. I run through my neighbourhood, not listening, not hearing. As I run, I unwind from my day and let the worries flee. And flee for the 30 minutes they do. But I don't hear and most times I don't see.

I imagined a different life. I would listen to inequity with my heart. My heart bore battle scares because of the pain I had participated in and shared with the nameless. Yet my heart persists to break because of my selfish pain. I have had the world laid before me. It is mine for the taking. Yet it comes back to me and what I want and what I can get out of all this. As I continue to hear about the fucked up life, I remain a spectator who can make a passionate argument for justice. However, it remains all about me. Me and my bloodied hands.

I wonder how to break this mold. How do I look and see, listen and hear? When do I get my hands dirty? When do I live in my community instead of running through? How do I get over the selfishness? As I remain a spectator, I simply participate in the systems that create injustice, without attempting to break the cycle. My hands are bloodied in my stillness. I may have all the knowledge to understand the complexities. However, as long as people keep falling in the forest with no one to hear them fall, then they do not fall. They do not exist. They remain nameless and faceless.

This has been about me. It remains about me. I cannot break out. I am selfish.

Another did...

2008-09-08T21:05:00.004-04:00

I sit on my bed wondering what has changed...........

The last time I made this journey, I was shattered. My heart broke because of who I had left behind. And I feared the changes spelled out in my next step. Blinking took longer than the journey. I was crying and breaking. As I drove into the town I had called home, I continued to cry within my breast, shaking an angry fist at the Mother of Fate, demanding an explanation for my changed circumstances. Not eating, not sleeping is cliche, but I lived through that moment. And I stood alone facing the demons within.

I just made the journey again. I imagined it would tear me within. I imagined I would be shattered and torn. I thought I would break. As I drove into the town I had called home, I was (surprisingly) struck by a sense of nostalgia. I kn(o)ew that these are the last nine months(or so) that I would be call this town home. I kn(o)ew that the moment was passing...faster than the blink of my eye.

I left the same people behind, or most of them. I have greater fears for my future, though one path leads down the path I ache for. Yet, I find that as I sit on my bed, something has changed. Someone has changed. The second journey was easier because the first person did not make that trip. Another did.

who is she, really?

2008-08-20T04:17:00.003-04:00

she is a strong woman, independent and in some moments quite selfish. she spends her moments figuring out how to navigate the conflicted social moments that are relentlessly hurled at her. she is quite successful at this navigation. she manages to excel at all she touches. i have seen her break into a sweat in tense moments, as any human would, but she comes through, each and every time. the scene changes and another limb of her family tree is introduced. she changes her face. she needs someone to hold her hand as she goes through the minutiae of life. she finds that she cannot handle things that she always breezed through. now, she has a handhold that was previously lacking. she turns to another before my eyes. she returns to a state that is assumed when limbs of her family tree approach since she is now a child. and when cast into the role of child, she willingly sinks into it and becomes helpless. so who is she, the strong independent woman who marvelously handles all of life's hurdles or is she the child who needs hand-holding to make it through the pedestrian moments of life. who is she, really?

she turns to me and asks me to describe her. i label her as .... and .... and .... she turns to me somewhat aghast. she says that others who know her label her as .... i pause to reconsider. perhaps she really is .... but i have remained blind. i recall moments that make me turn that explanation away. i have known her for years and i have seen her in moments that would vehemently negate my conferring the label. however, when i recall tales that she has shared with me of her life with the others who know her i can immediately identify her as they do, as .... yet i who has known her in a different capacity hesitate to confer this title. i ponder, who is she, really?

i listen to a friend who recently discovered another me. intimate snippets of myself that i hesitate to share, save in this forum, are now immediately accessible to the one who has only ever seen me cool, almost calculating. as i listen to their shock in finding me i wonder if all this is me. am i the cool one who tears all to the basics and beginning with the rudimentary reconstructs it all to form an understood image and idea. am i the calculating one who simply offers a hard shell to the world. or am i the one who is hurting, breaking, lonely, pierced and disjointed? am i the one who you see as you read this or am i the one who calmly stares emotion in the face and scoffs.who am i, really?

this brings to mind a conversation i had with a dear one. we were trying to understand what it is about those for whom what you see is what you get. do they have all these different facets of who they are? and if so, how do they manage to present this to the world and remain true to all the different thems? how do they break through the different masks we often present to the world to create a unified, singular them? or is it simply that we constantly see them when they have on a particular mask and that is how we know them. with another, the idea that what you see is what you get is laughable...

is it universal. do we always ask. who is she, really?

Moments...

2008-08-08T04:30:00.003-04:00

Torn up and tangled up. Confused and conflicted. Desiring and demanding. Pulled and pushed.

Each moment lived is imbued with choices and opportunities. And in each of these moments, we have to make a decision - inaction is a decision. Some of the choices we have to make are life changing and wide reaching, affecting thousands of lives and influencing the minutiae of their lived moments. The choices I speak of are those closer to heart, those that affect your internal balance and life - making it better or more complicated.

Not too long ago, I made a choice. My choice was nullified and I had to deal with the chaos created by this nullification. Moment by moment I strove to restore my internal balance. In some moments I found myself balanced, in others I was back at the beginning and chaos ruled. But I was making strides forward with each moment lived.

I made another choice. My first choice was incredulous. "How could you deliberately make a choice that took us back to the moments before the making of the first choice? " my first choice yelled stamping its feet in exasperation. I paused. "I want to return to moments long long gone that were replete with warm fuzzy feelings impregnated with balance and calm and replicate them in my immediate reality," I attempt to explain. My first choice rolls its eyes at me and snorts in ridicule, "have you not yet learned that the past is in the past and any attempt to stretch your hand to recapture that moment results in pain and imbalance. Do you not feel the tension within? Do you not see the confusion? Are we not getting torn up all over again? How many more times are you going to learn the same lesson?" My first choice stares at me with tear-filled eyes and implores, "I know you long for the moments long gone. So do I my love, so do I. But they are gone. They belong to another moment and not this moment. To reach out for those moments leaves us hurting, crying, breaking. We have to walk from this pain."

Silencing my first choice, I look back to moments gone and turn to squint into the future moments. What choice do I make this moment? How will this moment affect my inner balance?

Moments...

If not US, then who?

2008-07-08T04:59:00.002-04:00

Yesterday when I got to the matatu stage, no matatus that serve our route were in sight. I stood around with all the other Kenyans and would push to try and get into a matatu when the occasional one came by to get passengers. Well, three pushings later, I was still standing at the stage waiting for a matatu. I was getting really exasperated.

This Monday had begun with all the earmarks of a long day. I got to work and applied my hard earned university degrees to the task of copying and pasting - ah the joys of the "hard" earned shilling. When the end of the day rolled in I happily packed up my bags, shut down my computer and headed home. Monday was coming to a close...until I got to the stage and there were no matatus.

Well, since I was at the stage I engaged in people watching...Kenyan women have BEAUTIFUL bodies, oh the lucky men and women who get to enjoy all that eye candy...some cute guy joined the waiting masses and we began to sneak flirtatious glances at each other...at last a matatu came and stopped right in front of me. We all eagerly stepped forward ready to get on this matatu only to be stopped by the conductor announcing that it would cost us Kshs. 50 to get to South B. We all took a step back. Ordinarily it costs between Kshs.20 - 30 to get to South B, but because of the scarcity of the matatus, the fares were hiked.

We all stood and watched the conductors bang on the matatu, announcing the hiked fare and route in a bid to attract passengers. We held our ground...for a moment. One Kenyan boarded the matatu, another skulked past to get on, three people glanced around in despair and then boarded...soon only four empty seats remained.

I stared at all the passengers on that matatu in frustration. We all wanted to get home and move on to the next stage of our lives(my Monday sucked just as much, if not more,than their Monday, I thought in a moment of self-righteous indignation) Probably, most of the people who stood staring at that matatu could afford to get on that matatu and pay the hiked fare. But in the face of such blatant injustice and manipulation, isn't it our mandate as consumers to refuse the goods and demand equitable service? What happens to the passenger(s) who cannot afford to pay the hiked fares? Do I ignore their plight simply because I can afford the hiked fare?

As a lone voice protesting the hiked fares(and other forms of injustice) the matatu will ignore me and carry more 'pliable' passengers. However, as a chorus who refuse to be manipulated, the matatus will be forced to respond to the shouts and cries of the standing masses and provide affordable and just fares. Social injustices take place daily around us. For most of us, if we can avoid the inconvenience of fighting against the injustice, we participate in exacerbating the injustice and carry on along our merry ways paying no heed to the suffering millions. Very few people will have the life changing and earth shaking moments of fighting against injustice evidenced by the heroes we can call to mind. Daily, we are faced with moments where our choices greatly impact the fight against social injustices. Therefore, before we point our fingers at our over-paid and under worked, selfish and self-serving politicians, perhaps we should consider the moments when we failed to fight against the daily moments of social injustice. Instead of shrugging our shoulders in defeat, we can begin to make over our moment-to-moment choices. In the fight against social injustice, if not US, then who?

What the FUCK?

2008-07-07T08:43:00.001-04:00

Human sexuality is one of the most confusing and confused components of the human person. At least, my lived experience confesses this to be true. I grew up in a conservative Christian home where sex was discussed in light of what to not do and how to avoid getting pregnant. My mother tried to educate us about our sexuality, but she was restricted by the society as she probably taught us about sex as she was taught about sex. My father has never had a conversation about sex with me – again resulting from societal pressures.

Sexual education was non-existent all through my school going years. Religious instruction was severely skewed in one direction. Depending on who one listened to, my church advocated for complete abstinence(no form of physical contact between a dating heterosexual couple) to following a path of sexual purity (which was defined as staying as far away from any sexual intercourse as possible governed by your well honed ‘moral’ fibre). While questions and conversations about sex took place, the conversations most often advocated for abstinence until marriage. As I spend time with friends who grew up in rather diverse social settings, our sexual and sexuality education was sorely lacking in most cases. Our parents, religious leaders, social leaders and education systems, inadvertently assigned our sexual and sexuality education to the cultural and media confusion that epitomizes a specific brand of heterosexuality sorely lacking in justice and ethics.

For a significant portion of the global population, religious leaders are often charged with helping craft a standard of ethics and morality to be replicated by their congregants. However, human sexuality has retained an almost mystical air among most of the religious circles I am familiar with, where human sexuality is something to be battled for most of your life. We are taught to fight the sexual urges that are part and parcel of most healthy, normal human beings until we are married – heterosexuality advocated as the only viable form of sexuality. We are then supposed to turn around and embrace this embattled component of our humanity once we are married and enjoy a full, healthy and mutually pleasurable relationship with our spouse, having received little instruction on how to have a full, healthy and mutually pleasurable relationship.

In this confused setting, it is no surprise that sexual violence remains one of the most powerful weapons used against the marginalized and disenfranchised members of society. In wars, rape is used to humiliate, disempower and debilitate warring factions. Globally, most cases of rape remain unreported – mainly because of the social stigma associated with rape where the victim is morphed into the guilty party. Our human sexuality is used as a weapon to destroy those we hate.

As I muse on this confused and confusing element of all human beings, I wonder where to begin crafting a moral and ethical standard of human sexuality that allows ALL people to express their sexuality in a safe and loving environment. Conversations that allow all people, regardless of creed, gender, sex, sexuality, marital status and physical ability, need to take place where all voices are invited to the table. The groups that have been charged to teach us about human sexuality are failing us – we need to rethink how we talk about human sexuality as a society and embrace an ethic that allows for the flourishing of our human sexuality, without infringing on another’s sexuality.

The vexations of separation

2008-07-07T04:51:00.003-04:00

Having lived as a legal alien for the past five years, I found the loneliness and anonymity intensely heart wrenching. In the land where I spend most of my life, I crave to know and be known. However, I remain alone. The moments when I find myself making progress to know and be known, aspects of my personality as well as the clashing cultures prevent my touching this holy grail. Consequently, I want to return home to where clashing cultures are not quite an issue and the only hurdle to jump is my personality. However, these past weeks home warn me that my desire to know and be known may not be realized – even at home.

The first impediment to my knowing and being known is filling in the blanks. In my absence from home, I changed, outgrew some shoes as well as embraced new mannerisms and ideas. In the same way, those I love also changed and became new people. However, as we interact with each other, while we acknowledge that there are gaps in the picture, we act like the past five years did not happen – to the detriment of our relationship. Things that irritated her five years ago have been replaced with new irritants while annoying behaviours that I had five years ago have morphed into new annoying behaviours. And as we continue to ignore these changes, I feel pushed into a rut that I vacated years ago – my dear ones just missed the relocation. Thus, I find myself reverting to a person I deliberately changed so as to relate and share with those I love. I wonder if they find themselves pushed back into the same ruts and inevitably rebel against this return. How do we fill in the five year gap while moving on with the immediate here and now?

The second impediment to knowing and being known is finding those to know and be known by who understand that I am now a hybrid of (at the least) two cultures. For example my hybridity is always highlighted when one sneezes. One of my cultures teaches that etiquette demands one to excuse themselves after sneezing while my other culture’s etiquette rules that those in the presence of the sneezer bless them. Thus, when I sneeze I excuse myself and wait to be blessed. While I want to return home to a culture that is more familiar and known, I fear that the tinges of the foreign culture highlight my person to the detriment of my (new) relationships with those I love. Hence, as I endeavour to know and be known by my loved ones, I find myself caught in moments when my ideas or thoughts place me back in my now familiar heart wrenching loneliness and anonymity.

As I write this, I realise that all people have their experiences of loneliness and anonymity. For some, this offers them peace and solace while others share in my heart wrenching moments. In light of this, what is it about your life that separates you from those you love and prevents your knowing and being known? Better, how do you bridge that vast gulf to know and be known despite the temporary (I hope) vexations of separation?

heed my tears, behold my sobs

2008-07-02T07:02:00.000-04:00

As I watch life rush past me, I want to stop! turn back and re-walk my journey.

When it was time to get on the plane I was ecstatic. I was moving on and away to what would be bigger, better and more exciting. I was living a dream many craved and few realized - and I was doing it in style.

The first time I craved love there was no one to love me. We were driving home and I was fixated, watching the tail lights of the car ahead and wishing with every part of my being that I was rushing home...to those who love me, those who know me.

I went home(sic) to a bunk bed in a cold, strange land and found comfort in a god who demanded that I become who I was not and never could be.

Years passed and I found comfort in friends, some became as close as family - yet the hole remained. Temporarily I found relief in the arms of one who said they loved me, yet they and their god demanded that I become who I was not, who I never could be. My heart remained cold and unfeeling, encapsulated by a shallow veneer of warmth and laughter.

My temporary relief faded and I stood yelling. "GOD, WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME AS I AM - WHY DO YOU DEMAND THAT I BE WHO I AM NOT, NEVER COULD BE?" the more i learned of this god, the further away i walked. i would not be who i was not, never could be. if you could not love me as i am then i would not love you as you appear.

Yet my heart remained cold, unfeeling encapsulated in a shallow veneer of warmth and laughter.

i want to return to the start and make the choice to not get on the plane. yet not only is that impossible, it is a bad choice. i would not wish to not get on that plane unless i got on that plane. unless i felt the frigid embrace of loneliness and basked in the glacial, hollow and lifeless laughter. unless i learnt that my temporary relief was a path to me. unless i learnt that this god demands me to be who i am not, never could be.

i am today because i was yesterday. today i hurt. i cry. the cold unfeeling casket around my heart began to break. but today is done with. the today built by yesterday is gone. left is tomorrow - the tomorrow built on today and yesterday. i return to the frigid embrace and hollow laughter. all this made me who i am - the person whom god demands that i not be - but i love who i am and who i will and can be.

but for today - heed my tears, behold my sobs.

they stole... the crowd stole from me......

2008-03-30T12:11:00.004-04:00

they stole from me... they stole from me... they stole from me...

The pushing, shoving, an elbow in my side. They scream...jeer and leer...they want to hurl stones... I am scared, terrified, petrified. I am silenced. I look around and wonder what crime I have committed. I look down and see bare legs. That is my crime. I am a victim of a different culture, religion and world view. They want to hurt me because I do not believe what they believe. I do not live as they live. I do not practice what they practice. Yet I look exactly as they do. They do not see the difference..............

The fear overwhelms, so I escape in my mind. I travel back in time and embody the woman in the christian gospels about to be stoned because of adultery. Jesus writes on the ground(what does he write, I wonder.) He will definitely condemn me. He is a man, a Jewish rabbi and revered by all. "We found her in the arms of another man" my accusers yell. (where is this man and why is he not here facing the stoning with me, I wonder.) "Our law requires that we stone her" (your law, i yell out in my head. no one asked me if i believed and agreed with your law. your law not my law!!! your law not my law!!!) Jesus continues to write on the ground (what is he writing... stop writing and hurl the first stone) Jesus stands up and asks the crowd, "who is blameless and pure without sin? Let that person hurl the first stone." Slowly the crowd slithers away and I am left alone with Jesus, who is back to writing on the ground. Jesus look up, sees the crowd has left, and instructs me to leave and sin no more. Why would Jesus think I had sinned? Did he see me committing adultery? Did he think I lived under his rules and thus my actions counted as sin? Why does he think that he has the right to "rescue" me from the crowd and then imprison me under his law?

I am back in the present day. The crowds are silent and have all slithered away. I face another crowd of condemners who place me under their law, a different law, a law they interpret and manipulate as they please. I am at their mercy. Money changes hands and I am allowed to go home as they have interpreted their laws and found me innocent of any wrongdoing. Suddenly, I am the victim.

I am in the arms of my love. He rocks me back and forth. He soothes my pain and eases my hurts. He gently lotions my legs - the legs that led others to condemn me. His soothing hands and loving touch help me find the beauty in my legs - help me reclaim my legs as innocent. His arms and lips bring me comfort, safety - they remind me that I AM a victim.

They stole my innocent love of my legs They stole my naive respect of other people's laws and cultures. They stole my friend - a friend who blamed me for their condemnation, who blamed me for the fear, who blamed me for the recrimination.... they stole my friend. The crowd stole from me. They stole my faith in my innocence.

I look back. I still have not told those closest to my heart of the crowd - the crowd that condemnded me and led me to condemn myself. I have lived with the fear that others will condemn me. I did not respect their laws and their culture. I had it coming to me... I fear their condemnation.

they stole from me... the crowd stole from me..........

Observe and Comment. Period.

2007-09-30T10:19:00.002-04:00

I really think that humans should come up with a better way of beginning conversations than the usual, how are you, how are you doing, hope life is going well, etc etc, especially when it is simply mandated by the rules of social decorum and is not a genuine expression of concern. Of course beginning conversations this way does not mean that one does not feel concern, but rather that one needs to find better ways of expressing this concern and interest. For example the way i have evolved into this machine that can simply say hi how are you doing, wait for the almost obligatory, am well and how are you doing, so as to respond and say, am well. all that is done in the space of ten seconds. Do we actually communicate our lived reality in the space of ten seconds. Or perhaps, that is not the point of the greeting. Rather, in the space of ten seconds, we want to simply create a space to delve deeper into the rich intricacies of the other person's life. And that is where I believe most of us balk.

I have been analysing my reasons for starting this blog and maintaining it, though I do write in it rather sporadically. One of the great inheritances we have from the Enlightenment period was the sharp dichotomy between reason and emotion and the obvious privileging of reason over emotion. Several cultures teach that to display emotion is to show weakness and vulnerability. Hence, we walk around as this great automatons who are unaffected by the pains and conflicts of life. In moments when we break down and dare to show any emotion, we are quick to apologise and retreat behind the wall of automation.

Well, that may influence why we don't take tome to delve into the intricacies of each other's life. On the one hand it is much easier to go through the motions of life, on the other delving into someone else's life leaves us open to having our own lives delved into. Well, am a coward and prefer the silhouette of automation and anonymity and therefore will end this with no conclusion. But in moments of weakness, I share my emotions with the anonymous masses outside the sphere of my immediate daily interactions. It thus becomes easier to step outside my silhouette of anonymity for a span with the unknown person who reads my blog. In other spaces, and with those I know, I observe and comment. Period.

Push me...please?

2007-09-22T18:02:00.001-04:00

I have found that I feel loneliest when I am at my busiest or when surrounded by people - thousands of strangers. Today I was lonely. As I walked down the street, I watched people sitting out on their porches surrounded by those they cared for, and saw some kids riding their bicycles enjoying the comfort of their friends. Yet I walked down the street alone. A few people stopped their conversations long enough to say hi to the lone walker, before returning to their laughter or commiseration. I bumped into some friends, and we paused to exchange pleasantries. Then I found myself alone, yet again. As I walked along the street I remembered a conversation I held with one of my loved ones. She asked me if the feeling of being the outsider in a foreign land ever fades away. To console, I was tempted to lie and say that with time you learn how to be one of the insiders in the alien land. I did not lie to her. Four years later I remain an outsider.

I have been a legal alien(to borrow lyrics from a song I enjoy) in this new land for four years. I remember the excitement of leaving home that soon morphed into intense loneliness and sadness. This foreign land was not all milk and honey. I was constantly reminded by every one's actions that I was not one of them - I was the outsider. People I met complimented my accent, and then immediately failed to understand me because of my accent. I became the authority on all things from my native land, only to get into arguments over the history, struggles and realities of my land - they knew my land better than I knew my home. In all this, I hoped to find a niche that would be replace the comfort zone I left behind. Yet all around me I was reminded of my loneliness. Four years down the road, while I have learned more about this alien land, I still remain an outsider, I am - still remain lonely.

My circumstances changed recently and this exacerbated the situation. I find myself on a precipice, forced to jump into the unknown abyss, yet clinging onto the edge fearing the necessary jump. I turn to look back at what was my life. I made my niche, had my friends and was comfortable in that space. Yet life moved on and I relocated to a new space, where I am forced to create a new niche. But I fear that I lack the courage needed to create a new comfort zone. Hence, I look back longingly, wanting to return to my old home, my old friends, my old comfort. But I cannot because that space does not exist anymore. Life happened. And that demolished my old comfort zones. So I stand on this precipice, fearing the jump yet faced with no other alternatives. I have to take this plunge. I found the courage four years ago to create a new life for myself. I fear that I will lack the courage this time to create this new life, and find myself even more of an outsider in my new society. I need a push over the edge...push me please?

Running from me?

2007-02-25T15:52:00.000-05:00

I deem the ability to know thyself one of my greatest accomplishments. However, I recently had that certainty shaken. I left home and hearth for the great unknown in search of education at the feet of great minds. I had the chance to reinvent myself. No one here knew about the time in standard six when Mrs. Okello made fun of me and my then-boyfriend in front of her class because he was shorter than me. No one knew of the time I failed to bathe for about a week because I was too busy watching cartoon network. Nobody knew me. I could rewrite my past. I could take away the bad and leave behind beauty and laughter.
However, there are those times I will bump into someone who knew me before I had the chance to reinvent myself and I will feel naked. I wonder if they can see the sham that I am. I want the world to see me as a very mature, organized and together person. Yet, I know that often I am not that. Often, I cower in fear at the next obstacle I have to face or I run from my own shadow because of unidentified prejudices. I place my dreams in the hands of unidentified forces and then scream at a God for failing to hand me my dreams. I am not that together. And those who knew me before I reinvented myself know this best. They look at me and see me running from myself. But, where am I running to? The person I want to potray myself as is smoke and mirrors. I have to stop running from myself to ... to ... to...
Nonetheless, to realize my life is a facade does not stop my dreaming nor make it easier to accept the lie. I have to hold these two notions in tension. I want to reinvent myself for the better but I do not want to live a lie. I want to change Kenya. I want to offer hope to the millions who have placed it in the hands of stupid and selfish politicians. I want to give my children a fighting chance for a better life. I want to become wise and I want to be a constant source of joy and comfort. I want to remain a pillar of strength for those who need one. I want to be the person I want to become. But to do that, I have to be at peace with who I was and take the lessons learned and the glories acheived in stride. My fears, my hesitations and my shortcomings won't stop me from who I want to become. But running from me to... to ... to ... will. I am who I am today because of who I was yesterday. Embrace yourself.

How do I know I love? How?

2006-08-24T22:16:00.000-04:00

I feel obligated to begin with something tacky and off key like, am back or miss me? However, I will force myself to curb the sensation and jump right into it.

I have spent a lot of this summer reading romance novels. I have a weakness for them. I love the simplicity of the plot. There is the female. She tends to be gorgeous or strong or ambitious or some other characteristic that distinguishes her from the pedestrian female. Then there is the male who is heartbreakingly handsome and full of valor, or so irresistibly powerful and rich that he epitomizes the alpha male. Through whatever serendipitous path they travel or war of wills they fight, they are always victorious and the couple rides off into the sunset. Simple stuff. The romantic genre tells us that love is easy. All we have to do is be honest with ourselves and fight for what we want and we will find true love. If we are honest with ourselves and fight with all we have AND fail to get the love of our life, then that was not the one for us and there are better things down the road.

I want life to be that simple. I want to look at my past relationships and be able to dissect them to the bare essentials- I wanted to kiss this man and I wanted to be dined by the other man- I did not love any of them. But as I grow up and think more about love I find that difficult to do. I have always thought myself too young to love. One has to be an adult and know themselves completely to be capable of loving. I watch my friends, kids I grew up with, talk about love with an ease that I envy and distrust. One of my closest friends confesses to loving her boyfriend unfailingly. She is willing to give her all for him. Naive? Another cries over a woman he loved and lost. She did not love(?) him as much as he loved her. Yet I remain unmoved. I have not loved.

Or have I simply failed to recognize what was staring me in the face. How do I know that I love? Is it the feeling I get in my stomach when the dear man walks into the room? Is it the fact that I am able to list all his flaws yet still want him to be my dear man? Is it because I think about him often?

...Or is there more? Is loving the dear man a choice I have to make? Do I decide in my head that I will love and then act kindly, act patiently, be long suffering? Is love a choice? Or is it something that happens to me, like getting hit by a bus? I look at the dear man and can't help but love him? I recognize all his good and bad points, and cannot help loving him?

I once had a solid idea of what love was. I believed it to be a choice that manifested itself in our emotions. Now I do not know. I have a dear man that I may... love. Cynic that I am, I wonder if it is the romantic genre rearing its head. Perhaps I want to be in love with love. I want to be giddy and starry eyed. I want to be wined and dined. I want to be kissed and held. I want to be taken care of and protected. I want to turn the dear man wild with desire. I want to fight for the dear man. I want to hold the dear man to my heart and protect him. I want the dear man.
How do I know I love? How?

Certain

2006-05-24T19:07:00.000-04:00

I fear growing up. It seems to consist of nothing but pain, anguish, difficulties and disappointment. As a child, I do not know better. I am allowed to merely peek through the keyhole as I attempt to understand growing up. However, life tugs at me to push through the door and embark on this journey of growing up. I fight it becuase I fear it. Alas, I believe life will win this battle. I will grow up. I grow up. It creeps up on me.
One day I realise that I understand little questions in a different light. I have been grappling with loss. I have been extremely fortunate. I have never lost anyone really close to me. I do not know how to handle loss since I have never faced it. But I have seen glimpses of it. I was once torn as I watched myself lose one of those closest to my heart. We both fought and continue to fight this loss. But it is inevitable. We will lose each other. Or we could have already lost each other. It is not that we do not want to hold on to each other. We find that we cannot hold on to what was never ours to keep.
I recently read "Extremely Close and Incredibly Loud." by Jonathan Safran Foer. The book tells the story of a nine year old boy who is dealing with the loss of his father as a result of 9/11. The book also tells of the relationship between the young boy's grandparents. When I was done with the book, I could not stop drawing comparisons between the lives of the three characters and my own life. The grandparents' relationship was based on rules. That is how my life often is. I have so many rules that I have to recall. And I do not know how to distance myself from the rules. Perhaps this is growing up. This is responsibility.?
The young boy tries to find ways of handling his loss. He walks the streets of New York and meets new lives. He touches. He is touched. He pushes away the one closest to him, his mother. He completes the journey and comes home to his mother. I find that I do the same thing. I push away those close to me when I hurt. I have to walk away, to touch new lives and be touched by new lives. Then I will come home to those closest to me.
I yearn for the days when my parents could solve all my problems. I yearn for the days when I did not feel the tug of life to grow up. I yearn for the days when I wanted to be seen as mature and an adult. I yearn...
This entire post is pointless. I speak of inevitable events. I will grow up. I will have rules. I will have responsibilites. I will not return to the days I yearn for. Then why do I waste the time speaking of this? Perhaps I have wasted your time and my own time. Perhaps I have not. We will never know.

Chance meeting?

2006-04-30T22:53:00.000-04:00

I should be studying but I have taken a minute to put down my thoughts. It has been a long time since I wrote anything but that does not mean that I have not been thinking. I have simply lacked the luxury of time.
I have been thinking about coincidences. A friend told me of a dream she had of an ex-boyfriend. The next morning the ex called, after a long period of silence. She calls it 'coincidence'.
Tonight I went to dinner with two friends. We could not get a table for three, so we joined another table and met a new friend(?). It was an amazing evening of food and great conversation. I asked difficult questions and heard a different perspective. It was exactly what I needed to hear. Coincidence?
Yet another friend does not believe in coincidences. He believes there is a purpose and deliberate plan behind everything that happens. He would not call this chance meeting a coincidence.
I remain contemplative. Are there coincidences in life, or is everything part of some greater purpose and deliberate plan? I find comfort in believing that there is a purpose to this madness we call life. It is easier for me to believe that there is a reason for the tears that I shed and the laughter that I share. If there is no purpose, life loses its value to me. It becomes yet another stone cast in the sea of events and the ripples my life causes are inconsequential, are valueless. I do not want my life to be this. I do not want to imagine my life could be nothing but a huge coincidence. I prefer the idea of purpose and deliberate plan. However, I have always been a doubter and remain so. Could I be clinging to this simply because it is the easier option? Could life really simply be a huge coincidence?

My question

2006-03-12T22:58:00.000-05:00

I am a bit of a TV addict. Right now I am watching the end of Crossing Jordan. The episode was about a young grad student who detonated a bomb that killed over twenty people. Unfortunately, most of the victims were kids. We watched how the different characters reacted to the loss. In one of the scenes, Jordan was talking to Charlie's mother. Charlie was a young boy who had cancer. His cancer had gone into remission. Then he had to go and die. Charlie's mother asked Jordan, "why did God give Charlie back to me only to take him away."
I have grown up asking such questions. As I grew up and understood more about God, I felt that I had found the answer. This is an evil world we live in. The God I believe in created human beings to be in relationship with God. Consequently, God created humans as creatures with free will. Free will then accommodates both the good and bad things that exist in this world. For me to enjoy the sunrise and my sister's love, I have to live with and accept(?) the death of innocent children and the lying heartbreaking man. This answer has always been adequate; till recently. I fail to see how one who has suffered devastating loss is able to hear this and find solace in the response. I wonder if there is more to the question, why does suffering remain in this world.
I can not pretend to know the answer to this. Crossing Jordan had to end on a positive note(it's TV after all). Fortunately, Charlie had escaped from the bomb scene with minor injuries. I watched the poignant reunion skeptically. This is not how real life(or maybe my life) ends. What am I left with? I am forced to pray that nothing bad happens to me while I battle the question. I wonder if the answer will remain elusive. Nonetheless, if you have the answer, help.

My power

2006-03-10T10:33:00.000-05:00

I was the only Form one in my high school who was part of the drama club production. Reason? I am blessed since I can cry on cue. Our production that year was a choral verse about the ethnic cleansing going on in Kenya. I was able to cry on cue and that guranteed my role.
My crying history is more elaborate. I also cry when I watch movies. When I watched Armageddon, Sweet November, The Passion, The Constant Gardener, Braveheart, Dying for drugs, ... I sobbed like a baby.
I watched the Constant Gardener two nights ago. As I watched them leave the little girl behind I had to remind myself to cry. She deserved my tears.
I held one of my closest friends in my hands as she sobbed over her life. It was hard to watch her and listen to her moan the loss she felt. And I had to remind myself to cry. She deserved my tears.
I watched the second president of the Republic of Kenya pack up and leave his office. Moi made his mistakes and few were sad to see him go. But I had to remind myself to cry. He deserved my tears.

Crying on cue has its curses as well. Situations or people who do not deserve my tears may unwittingly receive them. As I embrace the power of my tears, I realise with great power comes great responsibility. I attempt to put my days of crying on cue behind me. My tears should only go to the deserving. I will cry over the beautiul bride with pride, over the happy family with pride and over the neglected child with pride. My tears will go to the deserving.