Facebook in the Face of a Tragedy

I have to admit, maybe this shouldn't be what I'm focusing on in comparison to what has happened over the past 48 hours, but I can't shake the thought that Facebook is the worst possible invention in the immediate aftermath of losing a loved one.

Last night I found out that one of my classmates from high school passed away that morning, and in the 24 hours since, I've experienced disbelief, sadness, confusion, frustration, doubt, appreciation...and disgust. Yes, disgust. And I'm disgusted to say that I've experience disgust in the wake of such a tragedy. And Facebook has been the source of that disgust. Well, not Facebook itself, but what the platform allows people to do.

While there has been an outcry of support and love, thoughts and prayers to my friend's family and best friends, there has also been an awful lot of speculation and inappropriate responses flying around. I'm not even going to get into that. All I'll say is that it makes me livid that anyone would dare to probe for details or create a possible scenario that may not be true on such a social setting, where friends and family can see such remarks. And if any one of them has a smartphone, we all know that means an inevitable tether to social networks and notifications each and every time someone messages, comments, writes on their wall, etc. Death is a horrible thing. You don't need every detail the second you find out about it. Let the family grieve. You will know eventually what happened. Lay off the interrogation.

Okay. Rant over. Now for digging into Facebook's flaws. Somehow it just seems wrong in every possible sense that people would "Like" a post about a death or "Like" a best friend grieving. I know that on Facebook, "Liking" something isn't synonymous to actually liking it, as in enjoying it or caring for it, but a way to interact. I don't care. It seems so wrong. So, so wrong. Comment if you wish that you're there for them, or that you love them, or that you're praying for them or the family, but "Like" it? I can't.

Next. You may have figured out that you can make little digital hearts when you do this: < 3 Good for you. Is that really necessary? To me, slapping digital hearts all over your statuses or comments don't really show the love quite like a heartfelt statement. Simplicity is key here. Why? Because what more can you say than, "I'm thinking of you," or "My prayers are with..." in such a situation? But then again, maybe that's just me.

Third (and I think finally, although I reserve the right to hop back on and edit my statements as more social media nuances piss me off), don't use exclamation points. Just don't. Exclamation points, to me, denote excitement or surprise. Alright, sure, you got me. You were probably surprised when you heard. I was too. But reign your emotions in a little bit. Being surprised over getting a puppy as a gift is different than this sort of surprise. Be respectful. Be sincere. Exclamation points are not sincere. They're gaudy. If you feel the overwhelming need to exclaim something in this situation, use one. Judiciously. Don't use four. Please. It seems so, so, so wrong to see exclamation points and digital hearts all over these statuses.

Okay. I feel better now. I'm going to go back to praying now.

How He Loves Us: A Story

What an incredible story.

I'm probably way behind the train on this one, but I love it so much I have to share it. Enjoy, and be moved.

Regi -

You were the best childhood friend. I will always remember you with love. RIP girl...

Church, Business and Science

I had a heated discussion with a good friend of mine today about the nature of churches. He, a very non-religious person, sees churches as a business - soliciting money from their "consumers" to create a "product." As a so-called "consumer" of a certain "product" of faith, I feel entirely differently about the entire situation. I do not feel solicited at all; on the contrary, I am happy that my money - a fleeting commodity - is going to a better cause, a cause I believe in wholly. Well, let's just say it's not an easy task to try to explain this concept to a non-believer. And, with my beliefs aside, I can completely and absolutely see how he can see the church in such a way. In fact, I have no doubt in my mind that there are many churches out there that utilize such models of operation - to mold their church into a product, and a business, for profit.

I suppose I personally like to view the support of my church (and I'm speaking of my church personally, not "churches" in general - I only know my church well enough to attest to it) as charitable donations. People willingly donate money to causes they believe in - cancer, heart disease, child trafficking, political campaigns, scholarship funds, animal rescue - the list goes on and on. The financial need of a church is a bleak reality of today's world. Any sort of organization, a true business or not, cannot function without funds. I know with all of my soul that whatever money I and my fellow parishioners are "donating" to our church is being used in the best way for us, the parishioners, and for others, whether that my be to open or fund a new venue to reach out to more here in our own community or to create wells for communities in need in Africa. But, on the other hand, I also want to support the leadership staff of my church, and have absolutely no problem with a portion of our "donations" going towards retribution for the church staff. Because I believe in them, I trust them, I know they love me and I know they want only the best for me and their parishioners. They are sacrificing the stability of a guaranteed salary for the greater good of our faith. I'm willing to invest in that. Just as someone who lost a loved one or nearly lost a loved one to cancer would support the scientists researching the illness, I am supporting a cause that matters to me.

So, at the end of the conversation, I was still left wondering: Are church, business and science really all that far apart? Are they each completely segregated in their respective bubbles, or are they more intertwined than they seem to be at first thought? I certainly don't have a definite answer. I don't know if there is one at all. This, ladies and gents, could be a debate for the decades.

Sunburns Aren't Sexy

Pet Peeve: People who don't wear sunscreen, or wear SPF 4.

Really, you think you're cool for being bad ass in the sun. You're not. You'll be wrinkly and leathery when you're 40, you'll most likely have some scare with a mole at some point (if not full-on skin cancer), and it's stupid. It's one simple thing you can do to maintain your health that is totally in your control. There are so many factors that are out of your control when it comes to your health, I cannot comprehend for the life of me why you'd let another go uncontrolled.

And anyway, you'll still get tan. It's not like sunblock actually "blocks" the sun. It filters.

So slather some on. Do yourself a favor, and don't be ignorant. Sunburns just aren't sexy.

Two Hands

This morning when I arrived at work I brewed my tea, sat down at my desk and read through my email while checking recent Twitter updates. One of the first statuses I read was from a woman who manages the Public Relations department for a very high-end fashion designer in NYC. She wrote:

"G-d gave us two hands. One to hold coffee, the other to hold a Blackberry-"

While I realize the humor in her post and the reality of the field I work in (social media = staying connected, 24/7), the idea that this was not purely (or even mostly) humor did make me a little sad. This woman, for as successful as she is, probably has a stronger relationship with Starbucks and her Blackberry than she does with a human being. She probably does use her two hands this way more often than not.

When I think of all the ways you can put your hands to use, clutching a beverage and a cell phone aren't really the most inspiring I can think of.



Also - just interesting to note her hesitation to use the name "God" in its fullness...I mean, it's probably just a typo, right?

Grace by Faith

I found a list of Bible study verses from a few years ago which I collected with a dear friend of mine, Janis, during a very special time in both of our lives. The very first one on the list was Romans 5:2-5 -

"Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand...We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts..."

I need these reminders that I am loved not by the works of my own hands, not by my accomplishments, not by my physical beauty, not by my lineage or my talents; I am loved by grace, by absolutely nothing of my doing. Such a simple concept. Such a powerful concept.

Aside from humbling my pride, this is a very important message for me - a chronic perfectionist. The message to me in this passage is: you don't have to do anything spectacular, be anyone important, prove anything at all to be loved by a consuming God. You just have to have faith and accept His amazing gift. Now that is something I am happy to do.

And do you know what I'm even more happy to do? To be loved by a man who mirrors God in his willingness to try to love me unconditionally by no works of my own. And to do so in return.
(See below...)

To My Main Man

You make me a better person. I love you.

Becoming a (God)Mother

I recently became the godmother to very special little girl, Miss Ana Grace. Ana is the newest addition to a family that has truly become part of my own over the past eight years. I have nannied Ana's older brother Mac (8) and sister Lauren (5) since Mac was a little over a year old and since Lauren was born. I love them as if they were my own children. I have shared in the ups and downs of raising Mac and Lauren with their mother during the summers of my high school and college years when I watched them full-time, five days a week. I remember fretting about how much sugar Mac would eat or how much television he watched when he was five or six and I remember the joy of watching Lauren crawl, walk, talk, read, and dance. I remember waking up one day and wondering, "When did Mac become a young man?!" I remember every single birthday party and every dance recital. I honestly cannot imagine feeling a greater love for another human being - child or not - in the way that I love these children. I know it must be possible, as I know I cannot possibly love Mac and Lauren in the way that their mother does. It scares me, in some ways, to know that a more powerful and intense love exists. (Maybe that's why moms get a little bit crazy?!).

Yet my love for them seems like nothing in comparison to their love for me. I am truly brought to tears when I think of the way that they love me - simply and purely, in the way that only a child can - and how who I am and what I do affects their lives. I strive daily to be an inspiration and a solid role model for them. And ironically, while I try to be a great leader for them, in many ways they serve as my greatest inspiration and are unknowingly two of the greatest teachers in my life. In the eyes of a child, life is put gracefully into perspective.

When Steve and Tracy told me they were expected a much-awaited third child, I was thrilled. I knew how deeply they wanted another baby. And yet, as Tracy's due date drew closer, I found myself having "mixed feelings." I know this sounds awful, but I knew that I would never know Ana as I knew Mac and Lauren. Their family of four had become such a strong and integral part of my life, and I was as much a part of their life as they were to mine. Suddenly, there was a new factor in the picture. There was the slightest tinge of sadness as my strong bond with her family was weakened the tiniest bit by the baby that I wouldn't know quite the same.

But then Ana was born. And she changed everything. She was absolutely beautiful. The first time I held her, an entirely new reservoir of love opened in my heart for her. I hadn't known her for more than ten minutes before I was completely and utterly in love with her.

A few days later, Steve and Tracy asked me to be Ana's godmother. I can clearly remember the moment they asked. Ana was sleeping in my arms. I was overwhelmed. I was incredibly honored. Tracy told me, "You have been such a huge part of Mac and Lauren's lives, and of our lives. We want you to know that we want you to be a part of Ana's life, too." What a gesture. I don't think I have ever, in my entire life, felt so proud and loved.

I still realize that I won't know Ana like I know her brother and sister. But I will do my best to know her in every possible way I can. My world has suddenly expanded from me, myself and I, to me, myself and Ana. Being a role model to Mac and Lauren never felt like a burden to me. And it doesn't with Ana either. But in some way, I have a strong sense of duty to be an intentional role model for this little girl, to touch her life in ways that will help shape her and lead her to a joyful life of love, faith, and happiness.

Ana Grace, I am completely committed to you. I won't know you in the day-in-day-out way in which I know Mac and Lauren, but I will know you. Very well. And you will know me, too. That I can promise you.

Courage

"May you speak and act with confidence and use courage to follow your own path."

Courage. This is a tough one.  Because it's not something that you can find and hold onto. It is ever-changing. Courage is more like an outfit, while some of the other gifts are more akin to tattoos. Courage comes and goes. It doesn't define you, as does your inner beauty or your inner strength. It is what allows you to radiate such personal attributes. Courage is also something that I feel at this point in my life, I have never had a firm grasp on.

I could write a book about courage's presence, or lack of, in my life at different points, but for this purpose I'll focus on courage in my life now. This is actually a very pressing matter that has been on my mind quite a bit lately.

The operative phrase in the book's description of courage, to me, is "use courage to follow your own path." Especially "your own path." My own path. Well, to start, before I can really even use or have courage, I need to have a path. The path is exactly what I have been struggling with lately.

I have found in the past few years that I have become a hardened person. Life has worn on me. For anyone who really knows me and the circumstances that have defined my life in the past few years, it is understandable how one can become cynical and hardened, although that is not the only possbile outcome (thus what I am trying to change).

From 2006-2008 were two especially terrible years. I suppose, in its own strong way, courage was one of the gifts that got me through them. Yet it was in the midst of those years, in such intense adversity, that I found a true and clear path for myself. I discovered who I wanted to be, how I wanted to view life, and what I wanted others to remember when they thought of me. Prior to those years, I'd striven to be everything to everyone -- the perfect person. I wanted to be caring and tender but sarcastic and witty at the same time. I wanted to be edgy and fearless while being sympathetic and humble. I was rolling myself thin with my attempts to have a jack-of-all-trades personality.

When I was forced to take time to see where I had been, where I was and take note of where I was headed on my path, I realized I was going nowhere, because I didn't have a clue where I wanted to go. I very clearly defined myself in that incredibly vulnerable time period. And yet here I am today, two years later, finding myself back at the crossroads, wondering where I am headed and where I want to be headed, and how to reconcile the two.

Specifically, the compassion and groundedness I had so valued in my life before had all but vanished with a phase of social obsession recently. It is so easy to get caught up in letting your path be defined by what jeans you own, what street you live on, how much your salary is, where you work (or who you work for), what brand names you own, or, my weakness, which designer you're touting on your feet.

I think back to 2006, when everything I wore for an entire month was straight from Goodwill or sewn by my own grandmother's hands; when I didn't take a real shower for the entire four weeks, or any type of shower at all for an entire week; when I was covered in dust and dirt and grit and snot from the most beautiful places and people; when I left everything I owned, knew and loved behind for Africa.  And it was then that I realized that I want to be a person with substance rather than a person with possessions. But today's world is brutal when it comes to substance vs. possession, and such a decision has to be intentionally kept.

I daily have to remind myself that knowing where I am on my path and where I want to go is one of the most important to-do's on my list. How can I have the courage to let my beauty and strength shine through if I have allowed a detour to suppress them deep within me?

So maybe I was mistaken. To me, the courage to follow your own path isn't really the hard part of this gift; it's the staying on your path part that is the real challenge. For others, the issue may be the exact opposite. But I find that I am very easily distracted and swept along in the tides of materialism and status and the need to be as perfect as we somehow see our movie stars as being. My courage is less about speaking and acting with confidence and more about intentionally following my own path. Every. Single. Day.

Backtracking (Not Backpacking)

When I started out on my blogging journey, I set up a task for myself: to outline the Twelve Gifts in my life. To see how they have worked in my life, how they have changed me - for better or for worse, and how I hope to use them in the future.

I have since strayed far from that task. I completed the first two - strength and beauty - and then my blog became something I never wanted it to be: a tool. My purpose in writing this blog was to foster my creativity and my youth. I absolutely loved writing as a child, in high school. And I was good at it. I dare to say that I was pretty damn good writer, actually. Years later, after countless research papers and increasing responsibilities, I mourn the loss of my creativity. My writing is not what it used to be. It has become more scientific. More professional. My biggest mistake with this blog was to allow the outside world to shape my intentions for it. During my job search in my last semester of college, I started to write intentionally for future employers instead of for myself. My writing once again took the hit. My creativity was squashed. And the inner child in me quietly cried.

Well, I have secured a job - for now. But was it all worth it? I feel like I sold out. Like I gave into the pressure of society. Like I lost a little bit of myself in the wake of resumes and applications and countless hours on Twitter. Don't get me wrong - I love my job and I do love Twitter (that's undeniable!), but there is much more to my life than that. I am a daughter and a mentor, a writer and a reader. I am a loving girlfriend, friend, godmother. I am a committed Christ-follower. I have a passion for play and a theory about life: it's simple, we make it complicated.

This past year, I made my life so much more complicated that it had to be. Life is messy, but when you let yourself go with the drama, it becomes overwhelming. There are a few simple things in life that can ground me:

• My God
• My family
• My "kids" - Mr. Mac and Misses Lauren and Ana
• My love, Daniel
• Nature
• Writing

I want this blog to be something that grounds me. I want it to be an escape from the busy-ness of everyday life. The pressures of our society are certainly real. But I want perspective. Ladies and gents - "Something Sensational to Read" is part of my perspective.

With that, I will continue on my journey to outline the Twelve Gifts in my life. Stayed tuned for the next ten -

• Courage - "May you speak and act with confidence and use courage to follow your own path."
• Compassion - "May you be gentle with yourself and others. May you forgive those who hurt you and yourself when you make mistakes."
• Hope - "Through each passage and season, may you trust the goodness of life."
• Joy - "May it keep your heart open and filled with light."
• Talent - "May you discover your own abilities and contribute them toward a better world."
• Imagination - "May you nourish your visions and dreams."
• Reverance - "May you appreciate the wonder that you are and the miracle of all creation."
• Wisdom - "Guiding your way, wisdom will lead you through knowledge to understanding. May you hear its soft voice."
• Love - "It will grow each time you give it away."
• Faith - "May you believe."

Up next, Courage.

Ethnographic Writing: Voice (Video Included)

            It was a dark and windy night in Ewauso. A chill shrouded us as the wind kicked up the red sand of the great expanse. The Americans huddled in their sweatshirts and fleeces zipped up to their noses while the Kenyans pulled their Masaai plaid shawls and colorful kangas tightly around their shoulders to ward off the wind. We stood in groups around the compound, saying our goodbyes, as we would leave in a caravan of jeeps in the morning to relocate to Nairobi for the rest of our stay. During a lull in the conversations, our primary translator stood before the group and announced that the people of Ewauso had arranged a going-away gift for us - a song.

            A group of ten adults from the village stepped forward and stood before us in a line, shoulder-to-shoulder. Slowly they began to rock back and forth, pushing their torsos forward and bending their knees while leaning back slightly on their heels before straightening up again. Our translator, Given, stood in the center of the line. He, as the olarayani, or song leader, began to sing low in a rich and deep voice. He sang alone in Kiswahili for about ten seconds, his voice enveloping the silence of the wide-open plain. The wind carried his voice through the night and swirled it around the compound, cloaking us as a community. Without hesitation, those surrounding him joined in his song, a repetition of one, ten-second long phrase. The women’s voices soared above the others, giving the song a sense of hope and love that had been missing in Given’s lonely solo.  All the tones weaved together effortlessly, simultaneously raw from the purity of a capella human voice and harmonious in unison.

            The singers continued with this call-and-response rhythm throughout the entirety of the song, although as it played out, Given’s voice was never left alone again. During his solos, the rest of the group rumbled softly with low rhythmic throat signing and humming. At times I distinguished some of the women gently chanting lullabies I heard throughout my time in Ewauso while Given sang out the call.

             Although I couldn’t understand more than one word in the entire incantation, I began to recognize the recurring phrases as the song went on. The “chorus” seemed to be a bass-like chant of “a-hey, ah-hey-ya.” After repeating this phrase several times, Given would call out in a definitive voice, rising above the others in both pitch and volume while they repeated the chorus several more times until he finished his verse. The song, unlike the spoken language, incorporated lively intonation, including fluctuations and inflections to distinguish words or phrases along with pitch accents and marked tones. Occasionally I caught the English word “Jerusalem,” leading me to believe the singers were weaving us a tale reminiscent of their rich Biblical background and blessing us on our journey with their song.

The sounds seemed to move within me more than just around me, raising a sense of pure gratitude and love for the mass of humanity inhabiting the world in the pit of my stomach. After all, if these people thousands of miles away from my home in a secluded tribal town nestled in the middle of the great Kenyan desert could care enough about us, a group of young American students, to share the core of their culture and their one infallible tradition of hope and delight, then surely the world was a beautiful place. I breathed in deeply and filled my lungs with the crisp night air and swirling Kiswahili alike, nourished by the rich combination of physically essential oxygen and equally vital culture and community.

            After nearly five minutes, the pattern that had lulled us all into a satisfied sense of amazement shifted as the singers prepared for the conclusion.  A few of the women broke out of their repeated range and sang an octave lower than usual, harmonizing the entire verse. For the concluding stanza, they all sang in a relatively similar key, unifying their voices into one vast and powerful voice. To end the performance, Given turned forty-five degrees so his right side faced us and began to walk forward, maintaining his rocking motion. The singers fell into place behind him as he slowly passed each one of them, as if they were exiting a stage. And then the song ended as abruptly as it began, with no crescendo, no lasting note, no flourishes. In one voice, the Masai singers articulated their final, curt note. And then, just as swiftly, the singers were among us, mingling once again.

After I recovered from the pure awe of such a touching cultural experience, I thought about how their bodies and voices coincided. For the Masai, song and dance is an integral part of life, and is often a central form of expression. Their rocking movements, seemed, to me, to be a fully-embodied wave, an enthusiastic send-off at its finest. Their voices, so strong and forceful, drove their message of good will home. And they relayed all of this and more through their most valued forms of expression: song and dance.

Ethnographic Writing: Person

He is beautiful; the most beautiful little boy I have ever seen. His eyes are long and wide, very exotic. The irises are a deep chocolate brown floating over an ivory backdrop, more yellow than white—the telltale sign of a Kenyan. His hair is short, almost non-existent, on his large, round head, slightly cone-shaped. His forehead is broad and shiny, reflecting the light of the bright African sun in the midday heat. His face narrows into a neatly pointed chin, which is taken over by his wide mouth, and large lips that, when he smiles, stretch far across his little face into deep dimples on each side. His petite ears splay away from his skull, turning out at the plane level with his eyes.

His nose is wide, the outer edge of the nostrils in line with the inner corners of his eyes; the bridge, flat and gradual. There is often dry snot crusted around his nostrils. He has a healthy glow to his skin, but he is not healthy. He is a very sick little boy, and although he still tries to play and run with the other eight-year-olds, he cannot keep up, doubling over in fits of coughing midway through their soccer games.

He doesn’t let his illness stop him from loving life, however. He dances with the other children and teaches them new moves he’s invented in his time on the sideline. He helps tie plastic bags with twine to make the homemade soccer balls he won’t often use. His little hands sometimes shake when he works, but he is persistent and insists on finishing the job. He stops every few minutes to wipe his dripping nose with the back of his hand, dark mahogany like the rest of his body, flashing the muted taupe of his palm as he rotates his wrist. He smiles up at me when he notices me watching him.

Sometimes, when I hug him I can feel his little heart beating furiously under his hot skin. It’s frantic, as am I for his health, pounding far too fast for a resting child. His entire body is perpetually overheated, his forehead feverish more often than not. At first I convinced myself it was a natural adaptation to the glaring African sun, though the more natives I met, the more I began to realize this was not true: there was something wrong with Jefferson.

Still, from every other angle, he is a typical Kenyan boy from the slum. He runs around barefoot in the dry dirt, or sometimes wears makeshift sandals fashioned from old tires. He wears the same stained pants and shirt for weeks at a time: black trousers turned gray from layers of dust and dirt, with cargo pockets and a jersey shirt boasting “Jazz 56” across the blaze-orange chest, bordered by white short sleeves with raised adidas-like strips masking the stitching. There is a rip along the front left seam of his shirt, creating a large gap in between the orange and white fabrics in which the brown of his skin peeks through. Snags abound along the mesh material, flocked by stains and wrinkles. At first glance, you hardly even notice his clothes, however, distracted by his vibrant face. 

I remember the first time I spoke to Jefferson. He was watching some of his friends practice a new dance move in the courtyard of the house I was sharing with fellow students in Kibera. I watched silently from the porch of the house until the rest of the children dispersed to play soccer. Jefferson looked lonely and bored watching on the sidelines, so he started to practice the dance with a rung from the wrought iron gate surrounding the house. I walked over to him and asked if he could teach me the dance step. 

“I don’t know it yet. I’m practicing,” he responded shyly. Like many people, his vibrant personality did not shine through until you reached a certain level of trust with him. 

“It’s okay. I don’t know any of the dances, but I’ll practice with you if you want,” I offered. He looked up at me curiously with his big and beautiful eyes, and then smiled slightly.

“Okay,” he agreed, and he began to teach me the dance step, eyeing me every so often with intrigue. After a few minutes, his body began to loosen up, and an energetic spring developed in his step as we practiced the dance. He laughed when we stepped on each other’s feet and chided me playfully when I ruined the rhythm. The first time he smiled at me, I couldn’t look away from his bright teeth framed in the carefree embrace of his lips. There was nothing more I wanted at that moment than to make Jefferson happy. 

The reality is that Jefferson lives in one of the largest slums in the world with little and primitive medical care, poor access to nutrition, and daily contact with more viruses and infectious diseases than many Westerners will ever encounter in their lives. But Jefferson is also a kid who understands that his circumstances don’t have to dictate how he lives his life, even at his young age. The way he looks, the way he acts, the way he smiles and laughs and lives are no different than your average middle-class American child. But he’s not an average child: he is a child in a horribly destitute situation who is embracing his life and enjoying every moment of it. 

Ethnographic Writing: Place

I was lounging in the red, earthy dirt of Ewuaso at the base of a tree alongside Jeremiah when a drop of sticky white substance oozed out of the rough bark and fell onto my forearm. 

“We call this oloilei. It’s like glue,” Jeremiah said in his smooth, deep voice, securing a stray leaf to my notebook with Kenya’s natural glue. “Can I show you something else?” he asked.

We ambled through the main town of Ewuaso, past the large main building housing a bar and poolroom, a health clinic and a butcher’s shop. Pungent smells wafted out of the meat market as we passed, stinging my nose with their curt and sour scent. Depending on where the sun hung in the vast blue sky blanketing the Great Rift Valley, the main area of town was a mixture of bustle and abandonment. At mid-day, the market was often overrun with feet—big feet, little feet, bare feet, shoed feet. Vendors set up their booths with colorful tarps and shaky wooden benches to display vegetables, jewelry, kangas (colorful wraps often worn by women), shoes made of tires, portable radios, carved wood figurines. 

Once a week, people would flock to the central market area like the sheep they herded, bodies weaving in and out of the crowd like an intricate tapestry amid the angrily rumbling supplies truck from the city. Now, however, late in the afternoon, it was as quiet and empty as a ghost town.

Jeremiah was taking me to his apartment in a square mud building right at the edge of town to show me a book we had been discussing.  When we reached his apartment, I took in the scene slowly.  He had, in my first startled glance, no home.

His entire life was confined to a square area no bigger than sixteen square feet.  Tucked in one far corner was a wobbly wooden bench with a bright red spotted kanga loosely hanging off one edge and trailing along the packed clay floor. In the adjacent corner was a tiny wooden dresser adorned with a sunny yellow plastic mixing bowl and a dented metal pitcher for washing. A dirty chunk of soap lay in the bowl, waiting. Three tin coffee mugs splashed in a dark blue robin’s egg print sat beyond the pitcher, two at attention, one sleeping soundly on its side. There was a small lamp on the ground near the entryway with a stubby white candle and box of matches to accompany it. A clothesline was strung across an open span from one wall to the other about four feet into the room. It sagged tiredly under the weight of a tattered floral bed sheet. I asked Jeremiah if his bedroom was beyond the curtain. He said it was not—that was his neighbor Rose’s apartment.

I looked more closely at his home. Everything he owned was here? A low pile of earth-stained books lounged against the wall behind the lamp. A bible sat open to the book of Jeremiah on the ground in front of the stool, the pages scrawled with neat notes in Kiswahili. A scrawny gray kitten was perched lazily on the edge of the stool, hopelessly trying to lick his matted fur into perfection with his pink tongue, which, in fact, was the only thing in the entire apartment that was not dusted with at least one layer of thick Kenyan soil. Above the stool, a Precious Moments porcelain ornament hung precariously from the rope dividing Jeremiah and Rose’s living spaces. The egg-headed child stared at me with teardrop eyes and butter-blonde curls, clutching a golden cross in her small hands.

“My sister in Nairobi gave me that for Christmas a few years back,” Jeremiah said.

There was not a bed, not a plate, not a utensil in sight. There was no bathroom, no food. A slight glint caught my eye, and I turned to find myself looking into a gritty and fractured mirror clinging to the wall above the dresser. I tried to find myself in the murky sky, but could only see one startled eye staring back at me from a clear silver patch.

“Here it is,” Jeremiah said, fishing out a book from a corner piled with objects I had not even noticed.

On Life, Learning and ... Work

Whew! It's been a crazy few months. Not that March is going to be any less hectic. But, I can't deny it, part of me lives for the rush of a packed schedule. It makes my bed that much more comfortable at the end of the day...

Lately, I feel as if I'm at a crossroads. As a senior in college, I am hot on the trail of a fabulous job...but it's eluding me yet! (No fear - I will stand victorious...eventually!) The problem I find myself running into is the "lack of experience." Entry-level marketing jobs are almost all sales, while EL PR jobs flat out don't exist. I'm convinced of it... It look like an internship it will be for me, which is absolutely fine. I just need a little bread and water to get by. Well, that's not entirely true. I also need new shoes on pretty much a monthly basis. That habit will be a hard one to kick! Funny story - I actually considered an unpaid internship in NYC in which the reimbursement was not cash (obviously) or college credit (not very useful to me now anyway...) but SHOES and HANDBAGS! Can you say heaven?! I have to say, I actually considered that one for a bit too long. I'm sure my parents would love to support me by paying a sky-high rent in the Big Apple while I prance down Fifth Avenue in my new Louboutins, right? Not so much.

Anyway, back to the point. I am so, so ready to get my career rolling. I only have two months (wow, really just two months?!) of school left, but it's still hard to focus on companion animal biology, the use of poshlost in Chekhov's short stories (although I do absolutely adore Anton), and whether or not Ephesians or Colossians is a pseudo-text or not. No, no, I want to be immersed in pitches and Twitter, blogging and scheduling. Email alerts and conferences and speakers and design and ideas. Maybe six months from now I'll be begging to sit in a UW classroom with a cranky professor (that's unfair, actually. Almost all of my professors were fabulous people. A few I actually really enjoyed.), but I don't think so. I'm approaching my search for a job as a search for a future lifestyle. A lifestyle I'm excited to start; a lifestyle I was made to live; a lifestyle that will challenge me, challenge the people around me, and bring a good night's sleep at the end of the day.

So, for the next three years, I'm preparing myself for the reality of living on a minimal budget in a superbly over-priced city for the love of PR! And whatever I end up not loving, I'll just Tweet about. I mean, who needs therapy when you can have the entire world listening to you?

Bring it on world. Bring it on PR agencies (please!!!).

Carpe diem, folks. And goodnight. For now, I'll continue writing analytic papers on Russian literature until I lay my head to rest on my sweet, soft pillow and dream of sugarplum fairies and press releases...

But if I don't find a job, I'll just go on The Bachelor and woo my way into a lifetime filled with ABC endorsements and insta-celebrity status (and love) at the ripe ole age of 23. I mean, it worked for Vienna, right?