You Can't Leave the Table until...

How often growing up did your parents tell you to clean your plate because there are people starving in Africa?
Lots.
And then all kids think, "Okay, well then let's pack it up and mail it there!"
But no one does that---no one just mails half a meatloaf or leftover turkey across the ocean.
And why not?

In the course of the last two weeks I have decided that truly, really, officially...what I don't eat Can be sent to Africa.
(And by Africa I do mean the huge, diverse, 50+ country continent where humans began!)

So back to food.
mmmm...food. We all love food. Sitting at a table with a huge homemade Lasagna prepared for 4.
If I invited a friend it would feed 5. If Jesus came to the door and was hungry it would feed 6. We all would leave the table satisfied and not hungry for more. But had our two extra guests not arrived we would each most likely consume more.
Why?
"Because we don't want it to waste."
right?
Okay.
I get it.
I think.

But what if...what if we made less Lasagna, bought less beef, a little less cheese. Saved 3 dollars.
Now we don't need to send our extra Lasagna to Tanzania or Somalia or Zimbabwe...We have 3 dollars we can send.
That was just one meal.
It is interesting to think about.
When gas prices we crazy high a few months ago, (not that I remember since I don't have a car) people cut corners---ate out less, or tipped their waitress less (ahem...), or bought Tecate beer instead of Corona. Didn't drive to the store 3 times after dinner---but would actually stop, make a list, think, think. Plan.

So why don't we make the same "budget adjustments" Just Because. For Charity. For others. For people...
for People...Who are Way more amazing and wonderful and worth it than the inside of your gas tank. Duh.

So because I have homework to do I won't delay my conclusion any longer.

The more I consume, the less there is for others. The more I eat on a regular basis---the more people predict I will eat. The more resources I consume, the bigger DENTofaBlackhole I leave behind me. The more I eat and buy and have bought for me, (food or otherwise)---the more money I spend on me. Just me. Me! The more excess adipose tissue I carry around---the more calories I consume to keep me moving, to keep my tummy full, to power my brain. What a waste...when we can all function on less. much less.
And we as Episcopalians should agree. We think alcohol, sex and rock and roll are okay. Okay by Jesus!--as long as they are 'done' in moderation. The Buddha agreed. Balance. Yes. Balanced.

I eat more than my fair share. It doesn't make sense that just because we were lucky enough to be born in America---that we take it all for granted. It doesn't make sense that just because there are leftovers after nearly every meal at an American Family dinner that I should eat more, and my sister, and my father should eat more. If we all just breathed. Ate slower. Thought about it. Realized that for so so so many, food is rarely something that comes, just appears! everyday---much less 3+ times a day.

As I sit here typing on my own personal laptop in my own room in my apartment with my bike and my backpack and my student loans...I didn't Earn this. I didn't...really...actually work Hard to get this awesome life. It was given to me as a gift. A free gift. No strings attached. We use to hear a story with that moral each Christmas at St. Andrew's-Sewanee. "A gift. A free gift. No strings attached."

But I think that moral only gets to part of it.
There Are strings attached. As Christians...and as good human beings...in this interconnected and fragile world, it is not merely "the right thing to do," it is what we have to do. For our people in other countries, for our compatriots and for the planet--and those who follow after us. It is our moral obligation to consume less food, less clothing, less energy. Once again, For us, (health!), for others, (because it Is right and Feels right)...and for the planet, (because Al Gore said so!)

So I know I started with talking about sharing food with starving people. But I haven't written in awhile and my brain is just a mess of exams, epidemiology, biostatistics, obesity, malnutrition, AIDS and malaria...And BY THE WAY for the first time in history there are more people Way Overnourished--as in Fat and Obese than undernourished and hungry. What a conundrum. We Are that statistic. We started this "trend." But beneath all that and at the foundation of my brain these past few weeks...

I have come to believe that if everyone just consumes less, eats less, uses less, walks more...not only will you feel better (and have lower health care costs) but sometimes---and as it has been and will continue to be for me---sometimes small changes, like buying a CSA basket or walking 10 minutes after every meal, or sharing a meal with a friend instead of getting 2 entrees, or buying a CAMEL from Heifer International for Tanzanian farmers(don't get me started on camels...)
---you will start to feel differently. You will start to care more, to feel more, to give more. You will also find you have an extra 5 dollars to give to a charity or donate to The Human Rights Campaign, or buy a local organic Turkey for Thanksgiving...which my mom did. And even though I am a vegetarian I ate. And then shared the leftovers with my friends.

This post is dedicated to William Bennett. My favorite person to chat with before, during and after a Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter dinner...and any other time.
We miss you dearly.

Inspired by Dad's Pentecostal sermon

It has been way too long. It has been too long since I have written. But more than that it has been too long since I have just say back, stopped moving, and let myself just be. I can barely comprehend that it has been over 5 months since I was in Tanzania. And look at me--I feel as if I have done nothing. Not only have I done nothing to promote the cause of The Carpenter's Kids program--but I also have rarely written to my friends back in Dodoma. I got into grad. school. That is pretty much the extent of my "accomplishments" since mid-December.
But I also feel it was just last week that I was on a bumpy road on my way out to some dusty village somewhere to join in singing and dancing and praying and laughing while snapping photos and shaking numerous dry, cracked, warm and loving hands.

Mostly I just want to make sure I don't forget. If I lead my life in the average American dizziness of unawareness--just thinking of work, sleep, food, friends, sleep some more...how have my travels expanded my mind, my world view? Sure my brain processes some things differently. Sure, I have more stories starting with, "When I was in Africa..."
But really, if I don't devote more of my time to telling the story, more of my money, more of my prayers, more of my energy towards the people of Tanzania...then I feel somehow that I have failed.

Tanzanian's are some of the kindest, warmest, compassionate and selfless people I will ever meet. I feel blessed to have been a part of their culture and their communities, even if just for awhile. I hope that I do take my MPH degree in Global Health and go back to help the people that inspired me to study public health to begin with.

But for now I need to continue telling the story. I have not yet had any of my photos of Tanzania printed yet. Somehow I feel that by printing them, organizing them, and putting them into an album--it'll be a sign that that chapter of my life, that block of time, is over. That there are not more photos to add to the story...

But memories, friends, adventures, faces, generosity, don't just end when the last photo is taken, when the last page is full. Just as the last words of the Bible were written so long ago...
and yet the love and energy and grace of the spirit is active and changing and developing in and out and through each of us every day. In the same way I hope that the life I had in Tanzania will not be just a story of days past, but an ever-present mindset and manner of interpreting my current life, here in the USA.
I will with God's help.

A drought in Georgia

I just filled up my Brita water filter. I wonder how much "cleaner" it actually gets. But even without putting it through the trendy carbon filter---we can still all drink it. It still tastes fine.
Just think, what if everytime you walked up to the kitchen sink you had to boil the water before using it.
then again, what if everytime you wanted water from your faucet, it wasn't there. As in, well, you didn't have a faucet. You had to hike 5-10 miles to get it. every time.

But today I'm not in the business of "what ifs" and "you should feel lucky you have the life you do." That has never really been my goal here.
really, it's just awareness. Compassion. Understanding. Perspective.

Women living in most of rural Africa have the "time" to walk miles for water---because, basically, along with child-rearing and gathering fuel, that's their job. My mom, driving thirty minutes, and working 8+ hours, and driving home again, there's no time for gathering water. But my mom's life isn't any Better. It isn't any less stressful. It's just different. Just like anywhere in the world. No matter the society, or economic system, moms, (and yes, dads too) will always have certain aspects of their life that they wish they didn't have to do: taxes, dog washing, car maintenance bills, putting food on the table, clothing their children, buying malaria medicine, paying for college...
who is to say whose life is more work.
it all depends on how you look at it.

As I hear the rain come pouring down in a loud rush, accompanied by thunder and flashes of light, I remember the geography lessons I taught at CAMS; heavy short-lived, intense rainfall doesn't necessarily help raise the water table. The water often times does not have time to infiltrate into the soil before washing away with the flow to the closest sewer down hill.
I think of people in this state who must hear the rain and think, "good, soon I'll be able to fill up my in-ground pool." Or, "now I won't feel bad about watering my lawn twice a day." (yeah right, as if they ever really felt "bad").
wow. People have known for months about our drought--and yet they also know that somehow whenever they want to flush their toilet or wash their dishes...the water will be there. This is America! hmmm...
A friend at work is proud that he showers twice a day. Proud? what? guess he's somehow cleaner than me.
but why? who cares?
he is aware of the drought--but just doesn't change his habits. doesn't feel that the drought warning affects him.
But this isn't a personal attack on Georgians who take long or lots of showers.
But perhaps it is a reason for me to retract my statement about awareness.
Americans are aware of a lot of things in the world outside. We watch the news, (but don't get me started on US media "coverage" on international events), we watch based-on a true story movies, documentaries, in-depth articles, see heart-wrenching photos. And we are affected. Our mind, the way we think or feel changes. We have simpathy, sadness, even anger perhaps.
but only for those minutes, that hour, or that day.
It is so easy to just, well...forget.
No. no. Not forget. That's the wrong word. You forget phone numbers or doctor's appointments or milk at the grocery store. You don't forget the face of tiny orphan, or a cloudy well lined with frogs and salamanders. You don't forget the child with HIV who monthly travels alone to town to receive her ARV shot. You don't forget that hundreds and thousands are dying in Sudan, or that over a thousand have died in Kenya because two politicians disagree.

But it is easy to look away. It is easy to just get up in the morning, eat breakfast, brush your teeth, go to work, come home, read or watch tv, say your prayers, go to sleep, wake up again. And not once thinking of the orphans, or the beaten down, or the corruption or the hunger.

And here I am. Here I am.
I was in Tanzania for over a year. I lived and worked there and daily existed in a world that is easily ignored. Not intentionally, not with any negativity, just, "out of sight, out of mind."
And I have to admit that in my three months being home from Tanzania I have too often had days go by where I didn't think of, pray for, or talk about my love, my concern, my friends, my time, my work in Dodoma, Tanzania. It is hard to admit. It is hard to admit that as I lay in bed for two days with the flu I felt so miserable--and yet I knew, without a doubt, I'd be okay. I had a clean bed, running water, medicine, food, blankets...parents.
So many people in this world get sick--with no guarantee that there is someone to care for them, that there is a cure, or the time, or the luxury--to be sick.

It's a luxury to be sick. To take a day off. To just lay there and do nothing.
It's a luxury to turn down food, to say "no thanks" when someone offers you something to eat or drink.

just think. How powerful that is. How lucky we are to be able to say, "no thanks" to food. To have our water glasses at a restaurant filled and re-filled--never even let to fall below halfway full, (or is it half empty?).

But like I said before, I'm not here to make you feel like you should appreciate your life more. I'm not here to say, "hey, everytime you shower just think of how many villagers could end their life long thirst with the gallons you just used."

no. I am just writing because at this point, tonight, it's all I can do. I've been feeling drained, dried out, and in need of a reminder of the people I've met and the work I want to continue to do.

And I think of my friends on the other side of the world, who will soon be waking up. They will pile into a Land cruiser, drive over an hour to arrive at a small, mud-brick church. With two boxes, a large bag, and huge, tired smiles, they will bring a glimmer of hope to a few kids who need a uniform and some shoes so they can go to school.

I'm an African?

Someone told me I should keep writing. The experiences I had in Tanzania are still forming in me. There is still more that perhaps needs to be expressed. She was right.

First off, two weeks ago I was reading an article in Newsweek about the current conflict in Kenya. The article mentioned how "all were surprised" at the fighting in Kenya because it is the only peaceful country in East Africa.

Wait, what? Tanzania not only has a great history absent of any major conflict, but also is a place where everyone gets along. People rarely distinguish themselves as one tribe or another unless they are just speaking of their traditions, region or native tongue. I feel personally offended somehow when people don't recognize Tanzania's accomplishments--or when they write an article on East Africa and barely mention it as Kenya's neighbor to the south.

Today at work I mentioned the amount of pasta waste---how Huge the servings are! Two starving Tanzanian children could have enough food for a day with one person's leftover pasta at our restaurant. Perhaps an over exaggeration. But nearly true I imagine.

Then later I was going through the salad bin and tossing out all the slightly brown lettuce. A male co-worker who heard my earlier comment joked saying, "look at all that lettuce, it could feed a starving African child for a day!"
I laughed, adding that they don't eat lettuce in Tanzania, they want things with more nutrients, like spinach, beans or, you know, donkey poop. (My awkward attempt at a joke).

Another co-worker overheard me and said, "really? They eat that?"

And it's times like that when I wonder whether being American includes me in the same category. an average American, often so ignorant to the world outside our bubble.

But wait, wasn't I that ignorant? hmmm, no. But I Could have been! There are many things, many places, many cultures...that I know close to nothing about.
And so instead of thinking of others as dumb for being uninformed, I just find myself lucky. Damn lucky...for having such a rich experience.

The Moroccan guy at work calls me the other African at the restaurant.
me, African?
perhaps not.
But perhaps I am. Perhaps there is a part of me that is just a tad less American and a bean or spinach leaf or two more African.

Home...again...

Here I am.
I am sitting in a comfortable leather chair wearing the furry warm socks my grandmother gave me. The air is cold and I find myself still covering my head with a scarf and feeling that showing much more than my ankles and wrists in public is inappropriate. With my hood or scarf around me I can almost convince myself I am still there. Still shading my face from the strong massive sun. still covering myself so as to somehow blend in with the women around me.
Whereas here a scarf on my head makes me stick out.
But I never was the trendy type.

Last time I sat at a computer I was perching on the edge of a hard homemade wooden chair in a hot hot internet cafe wishing for the cold. As sweat dripped down my face with each sentence I typed I smiled dreaming of being cold and shivering on the way to church on Christmas Eve. And now I have it. Atlanta is cold. And now I yearn to feel the African sun on my toes...to feel the warmth. That genuine warmth.

and so the saying goes...

But since arriving home five days ago I have not missed Tanzania. Not in the way people might suspect when they ask, "How is it being home?"
I have enjoyed being with family and friends. Enjoyed seeing some faces from years past. And when we speak, our kind and familiar words suggest not a day has gone by. What a lovely feeling. Our hugs and smiles suggest that we still know each other quite well. And in many ways it's true.
But something inside feels as if I am meeting them for the first time. Not because they are funnier or skinnier or happier or taller than a year or two ago...but because it is me that is not quite the same person as before. Not a new person, not different, not kinder or quieter or changed really. Just---rewired. A few nuts and bolts have been rearranged.
Everything I see, every word that I hear, now is processed through a slightly altered machine.



What I miss about Tanzania isn't the huge shining sun, the gorgeous sky, or even the beautiful fabulous kind and loving people you find everywhere. It isn't the slow pace of life, the relaxed attitude of everyone, the taste of my roommate's cooking or the smell of flowers on my walk (not drive!) to work. It isn't the overwhelming welcome and smiles that I received each morning entering the office at work, or in a distant village. It isn't the tasty lunch that cost less than a dollar or the fresh fruit that was so sweet, and so fresh, (and did I say cheap?). It definitely isn't the English services at the Cathedral that I giggled my way through; or even the evenings of prayer and song with friends in our attempt to make amends for the disaster that always was Sunday morning in Dodoma. It isn't the jokes and snickering and comments of my charming, brilliant and entertaining students.
It isn't my closest friends, or my boyfriend, (what?) or the new Swahili or Gogo words that I learned each and every day.

It is feeling at home. And not like coming home for Christmas after being away at college. Not coming home after a week of stressful traveling. Not the cliche "Home Sweet Home" warm and fuzzy I want some of dad's meatloaf and mom's chocolate chip cookies wanna pet my dog and sleep in my own bed and make fun of my parents with my siblings coming home.

I miss feeling at home in a place that is not naturally home. Feeling safe and comfortable and secure and loved in a country, in a town, in a community where you arrived not knowing anyone.
And leaving I now somehow feel that I know them and they know me even better than I thought. Of course my friends and co-workers were there for me all along--when I was sad, lonely, happy, or hopeless. But that's what they are there for right?

It was the the neighbors I rarely talked to, the thousands of faces from all the villages I visited, the taxi drivers I chatted with, the mango sellers, the tailor, the cucumber and green bean man, the lady who swept my house and washed my clothes, the dude who sold me cheesy Tanzanian souvenirs, the random children greeting me on their way to school...these are the ones that made Tanzania feel like home. These are the people that gave me the feeling of being home. Although I will forget faces, smells, words and names, the memories won't change.
Whereas most places hosting tourists have the attitude, "hurry up and go home," Tanzanians seem to say, "there's no hurry here--this, too is your home."

Clouds

Today is a Friday. Fridays are normally good days. Today feels different. It feels sad. A bit gloomy. A bit like anything could happen at any second that could just make me break down and cry. But it’s more than that. It isn’t really tears that need to be shed. It is more that some thought and reflection needs attention. Some prayers need to be whispered.

A close friend’s grandmother is in the hospital. What feels worse somehow is the suffering of her children and grandchildren…the pain in their voice and in their eyes. and yet the love expressed through their grief is encouraging and real.
Another close friend…her mother is sick. Not doing too well.
It’s more the confusion, the complete inability to understand, to comprehend…than a plaguing sadness.
Or is it?
And then it is hot. So hot outside. Not hot like laying on the beach and needing an ice cold refreshment and a soft breeze blowing through the palm trees hot. Hot as in trapped. Hot as in you feel so insignificant, so small; and it is difficult to take a deep breath. It isn’t the humidity. There is none. It has not yet rained. Those who rely on farming here—most of the population—are waiting. Waiting for God to provide rain for their fields. Waiting for a guarantee that they will be able to feed their children next year. Christmas. Yeah. It is a day on the calendar. A day of celebration within the church building. And that is it. Simple.
Walking down through town, I feel like I am in a daze. The same path I have walked 2-3 times a day for over 4 months…but today is different. Today I could only think of all the sadness and stillness around me. The boys asleep in the shade under a tree. Not because they are lazy, or even particularly sleepy, but because there is no job. Nothing to do. A man with no fingers and no toes begs for money in the palms—what is left—of his hands. Meanwhile he sits in the sun, leaning against a street sign with his eyes closed due to the bright sun. Mothers carrying their babies on their backs and 12 pineapples on their head, just hoping that they can sell at least 3. The thirty-something year old man with 4 pairs of shoes for sale. He hopes to earn enough money to pay for his bus fare to return to his home village to visit his family. The young boy skipping to school hasn’t eaten in two days. But today is the last day of school for summer break so he is happy. I think. One wonders what he will do when he doesn’t go to school. Who knows if he will return to school in January. Maybe his family will need his help on the farm, or selling nuts, or begging.
Music is playing from some taxi down below. A café across the street plays a different radio station. The music is happy, cheerful, but it feels fake; staged somehow. Distant.
Another child. HIV+. 12 years old. Both parents already dead.
It is Friday. Huge numbers of men and women walk towards the mosque. Time for prayers. What will be prayed for today? What personal prayers will be spoken silently under the sound of the familiar recitations and repeated words?

It seems that the sky is overcast now. Perhaps there is some hope for rain.
Or maybe it’s just a cloud that has come to shade us for awhile. To block out the intense heat for a few short moments. To give us a breath of cool air.
But soon it will move on to another town, another place. And we will be enveloped in hot air again. With a feeling of emptiness…just waiting to be filled.

Faces

There are signs Everywhere. Running down the middle of the three main streets in Dodoma there are huge photos of the Tanzanian president every 50 meters. The signs are attached to street lamps. When the holes in the middle of the streets were being dug about a month ago, we figured it was the same old activity: right before parliament comes to town—look busy.
Make it look like tax money is being spent on something useful in this, the “capital” city.
But to the shock and surprise of all of us, street lights went up—real ones! That actually work!
And then came the signs—first some CellTel and Vodacom signs (mobile companies) and then Kikwete. He isn’t at all a bad looking guy. He even looks good in bright yellow and bright green—the colors of CCM; the forever ruling party of Tanzania.
Some have argued with me that there are numerous other political parties in the country. But have they ever had any power or influence? I think not.
Although as an International Affairs major who basically studied, “what the US has done wrong in foreign and domestic politics,” I cannot say we are doing too much better.
But then again…
We would never have Massively large signs of Bush’s face posted up in three of four places around in a town the size of 3 Supersize Wal-Marts (including the parking lots).
It just seems they could have paved 3 new roads in town with the money spent on those signs. Even at the English service at the Cathedral Sunday morning, (yes, father I went to church…) during the prayers of the people the man prayed that “the government’s resources will be spent wisely and used in a manner that benefits the people of this nation.”

Even my youngest students laugh at the corruption of the government here, (which by many standards is actually quite low.) I didn’t even learn what corruption meant until I went to university. It’s just a different world, growing up on the African continent. But I don’t have to say that again…
Back when I was in highschool if you asked me if there had recently been a huge flood in Bangladesh, or how Zimbabwe’s economy was doing—I would have barely recognized on a map the location of those countries.
But these kids, they know. They may not understand all the details and politics behind certain news stories—but they just seem to be way more aware of the world around them then the average kid in the US.
Or maybe I just spent too much time hiding behind bushes and rolling in the dirt.

The dirt is wet. The sky has rained.
Just two days ago Dodoma got its first real rains since the end of the rainy season early this year. It was a wonderful feeling.
It’s as if the whole region of Dodoma breaths a sigh of relief with each drop that falls.

Early Saturday morning I headed to town for vegetables. I put on a long skirt—only my feet in my black Chacos could be seen. I also put on a thin long-sleeve shirt and a white scarf to cover my head and shoulders from the sun—only my hands and toes are showing. And yet I was not hot. It isn’t really the Heat of this place area that is too much, it is the sun. It is so intense, so close, so burning.
But we get the opposite advantage as well—the sky and the stars at night feel so near to the earth, they are so bright. One could just sit there for hours, looking at the sky. there are no clouds, and no pollution blocking the view. The Southern Cross is one constellation that can only be seen in the Southern Hemisphere. The world is awesome like that.

Back in the Northern Hemisphere an old friend wrote me an email. He listed the “famous sites” of Tanzania to make sure I’ve visited them all before I leave the country. Of course not—the major game parks were all too expensive for me to visit—and other places I have wanted to go have just not worked out in the schedule. I did come here to work after all. Not that I really feel like it is work. For me it is just another challenge, another learning experience. I mean I have deadlines and daily tasks and often get tired of typing or waiting for an email to send, and sitting on the third floor of a hot hot turquoise office with no curtains and dust everywhere…But even in those moments I am enjoying myself. I easily laugh at my situation here—and how I chose this; I chose to work in a small under-resourced, hot, sometimes chaotic office where everyone is forever sweating; and yet always have the energy to smile and ask you how you are.
Wonderful people.
This country has wonderful people.