Misa ya Kwanza

So I finally sang with the choir at Sunday Mass. It was, interesting. One of the Mamas insisted I finally sing with them at Mass instead of just the practices. Makes sense I guess, but it was like diving into a hot tub you didn’t know was full of ice cubes. Okay, maybe not that extreme but it was.. interesting. This Mama and her husband own one of the dispensaries in Dodoma called “Upendo Dispensary.” She lives in my neighborhood in a beautiful, large house. After practice went late one night and it was too dark to walk home, she insisted on driving me home. That’s when she decided to also pick me up that Sunday morning at 6:50am for Mass at 7:30am. (You have to get there really early for this Mass. It sometimes starts early. Plus the choir sings before it starts. The church is always packed full by 7am).

The night before, I decided to wear my kitenge dress (a traditional dress I had made here) so I’d “fit in”. People always put on their best for Sunday Mass. Mama picked me up, we drove 3 minutes to the church, and snuck in next to the other choir members. Apparently sopranos stand in the first row, so I was lucky to be dead center, perfect view for everyone to see (I hope you are sensing sarcasm). Okay not everyone, but a lot of people – the choir sits in the seats facing the left wall of the church. But I don’t think you could miss the only mzungu standing in the middle of the choir, not to mention I was wearing bright blue from head to toe. This was one of those moments that I was severely aware that I wasn’t black. Go figure – I don’t look like everyone around me – who knew? But honestly, sometimes I forget. And sometimes I forget that every face I look at every day is a different shade from my own. I see people, not colors. Though sometimes I do think some of them are more blue or yellow or red than black or white. If I came out a different color I think I’d be a brighter green.

As Mass started and I began silently praying to God to become invisible, the women around me moved rhythmically to the beats of the organ, swaying their hands and moving their bodies in sync. We definitely didn’t practice this. I had to choose – figure out this dance and move along with them, or stand still and try to keep up with the words on the page in front of me. I chose first the dancing figuring it would be less noticeable to not sing, and slowly found myself singing along to the chorus. Talk about multitasking.

First song over – Lord, please let this go fast – we sat a little as usual then rose again to sing some other things that weren’t on my page. You know, those songs that everyone knows because we sing them every Sunday. Singing in English doesn’t quite cut it, so again I found myself pretending like everything was normal. Pretending I was supposed to be dancing there not singing. Pretending like I looked like everyone around me and no one cared I was there. And the fact was, once Mass started people didn’t really stare as much. I mean, there were a few but most just looked ahead at the altar where the real action was happening. That helped cool my nerves a little, thankfully. I just kept repeating a mantra in my head the entire Mass, “This is normal; no one cares. This is normal; no one cares.”

Most songs went by okay. I knew a few from our practices but some I had no idea. Most of the dancing I caught on eventually, but there was this one four step thing that was near impossible. I use “four step” loosely considering we’re squeezed into a pew, but it was a four point movement nonetheless. I was concentrating so hard on moving like the women next to me, I must have been wearing one of those “thinking hard” faces. The Mama next to me caught my eye and we laughed. It was so stressful. That one I gave up complete hope of singing the words considering I couldn’t even keep up with the movements. I was glad when the words slowed down signaling the end of the song, and more importantly the end of the dancing.

The end of Mass came and the women to the left of me began moving out of the pew as they were singing. I followed along and realized that we are now processing out of the church, down the main aisle, singing and walk-dancing in step to the little outdoor gazebo where we have our practices. I might have liked that the most because eventually the organ stopped and it was just the choir singing. They sing so well the organ almost ruins their voices. We sat in the gazebo making announcements for almost an hour (I was so hungry and tired at this time, it was a little painful). But when everyone was leaving, many of the Mamas who previously had been a little stand-offish congratulated me on my great dancing (hah!) and singing.

Though it may have been two of the most stressful hours of my time here, it was totally worth it. I feel the people at the choir have been engaging me much more, joking, teasing, laughing with each other. I’m so glad. (The Mama with the car told me the choir was afraid to approach me because they just didn’t know how we’d communicate. I think they now realize that I’m trying my hardest at the language and that we may not say much but we can get our points across!)