This year I've
decided to recommit myself to choir – as in an absolute way. I
think most of the reason choir was a little tough and kind of
stressful for me was because I was going to about half of the
practices, including the actual Mass, and therefore I was never
catching up to everyone else. It's just a little exhausting going to
practice almost every day! (We have practices Tues, Thurs, Fri,
Saturday is usually wedding singing, and Sunday is the earliest Mass
on earth.) But since I've been back this year, probably with a better
attitude and definitely with more Kiswahili, things have been
different. It's very intimidating to show up to a group of
professionals singing in a different language and hope to just “fit
in.” But even since my hiatus of last year, the people welcomed me
back with “poles” for the work that kept me away, and smiling
faces when I tried to communicate where I had been in broken
Kiswahili. (Side note about my language: I'm actually very thankful
for how much I can understand and communicate at this time. My
vocabulary is still very limited, but it's amazing how much you can
say using the same 20 verbs. Thank God for my patient friends who
help me through it! I think my comprehension was a product of not
having second years before me, because in the past language really
never was my thing.)
After a night of
convincing myself that I will never be good at choir unless I go to
every single thing they all go to, I went to sing at my first Mass in
months. I knew I wasn't going to know many of the songs, or many of
the dance-moves (sometimes they have choreographed hand waves or
clapping that I miss out on when I miss Saturday practice). I used to
feel so so silly for not knowing everything. There's a new girl
working at our school named Jacky (she'll be Rose's replacement when
Rose gets her holiday), and she has been coming to choir too. So now
it's nice to not be the only new one and the only one who is trying
to figure out what is going on. I just stood next to her and my
friend Mama Shayo so we could at least laugh when we weren't sure
what was going on. And the Mass went fine. I always get compliments
throughout the entire next week for singing in the choir and “knowing
everything” even though clearly I'm a little lost at times. But
I'll take the compliments – it reminds me that people only see that
I'm up there and I'm trying.
After Mass Mama
Shayo invited me to her house. It might seem funny, but even after
living here a year I still need to mentally prepare myself to be
gentle and patient with myself during visits to my friends. In the
States, you could come and go as you please when visiting a friend,
but here it is almost insulting to rush off after four or five hours.
I knew I'd be there all day, but I was excited about it. Mama Shayo
and her husband both sing in my choir. I've visited her home before,
and it was great to go back. She has two wonderful boys in Class
Three and Form I (high school).
Almost as soon as
we arrived, Mama Shayo served chai. She made a delicious homemade
bread that we drank with some special tea she made from a plant
outside her house. I promised to teach her how to bake a cake if she
would teach me how to make that bread! She cooks it on her charcoal
stove, too, which I think is just incredible. How do you even do
that!
Most of the day
usually revolves around eating. So after chai we went to the market
to pick up the supplies for pilau (spiced rice). We stopped at her
shop where she sews and embroiders pillow and blankets. And this was
the second time I've gone to this market with her. This market is
one in the middle of her neighborhood, so it's off the path from
where any other white people would ever frequent. It's funny to
still get stares and surprised looks after a year of living here, but
many of these people spend their entire lives in that one spot in the
market. It feels great to be able to greet them all and communicate,
and get their jokes and “white-people” jabs and respond in ways
that can bridge a gap that may take years to close. Mama Shayo
introduces me as her younger sister, or sometimes her daughter. It's
silly, but it felt special when a few people said we looked alike.
I really like
Mama Shayo, and her husband. They don't make a fuss about me being
different, unless it's to say something about how much I've become
“mtanzania” (a Tanzanian). Their sons call me “Mama mdogo”
which literally translates as “little mama” but means that I'm
the young sister of their mother. Instead of aunt or uncle,
Tanzanians call the older siblings of their parents mama/baba mkubwa
(big or older mom/dad) and their parents' younger siblings are called
mama/baba mdogo (little or young mom/dad). That really transforms
how you think of your aunts and uncles when you consider them another
mother or father. I wonder if my aunts and uncles would be okay with
me calling them “big mama” or “little dad” when I get home?
(Haha sounds a little funny translated to English!).
We started the
cooking when we got home, but soon Mama Shayo's friend came over to
tell her that there was an “msiba” happening at their neighbor's
home. “Msiba” is literally (and appropriately) translated to
“mourning.” This is a funeral of sorts where women gather in the
home of a woman who has had someone pass away, and sit with her as
she and others cry. There is usually much singing and praying. Mama
Shayo's neighbor just had a grandchild pass away, and so we went to
visit her. Traditionally women wrap themselves in khangas when going
to a msiba. You can spot a msiba when you see groups of women all
wrapped up walking in the same direction.
This was the
first msiba I've ever experienced. We walked into the home and the
grandmother was sitting on the floor on a mat surrounded by other
women. We knelt in front of her, held her hand, and told her we were
sorry. For a while, I just sat as the women talked about what
happened, and shared stories of other children who have passed. This
woman's grandson was hit by a lorry – unfortunately a very common
way to pass in Tanzania. The family and grandson live up north in
Arusha, so the grandmother would be traveling there the next day.
It's moments like this when I try to be as invisible as possible
because I know my being a white person draws attention. Mama Shayo
eventually introduced me and told a little of my story (what I am
doing in Tanzania) and the usual conversations followed.
Being an outsider
is still an interesting experience, especially when in my heart I
have to navigate between feeling like an outsider and feeling very
much a part of the community around me. There's always a different
role expected of you, in each room you walk into and with each
interaction. And it's almost always a guessing game of filling the
role expected or needed of you. This funeral was one of those
moments when I was allowing myself to be one of the others, blend in
to all the women around me and not stick out, partially because that
made me comfortable but also to keep attention on the woman in
mourning, but later I realized that my presence as a guest was a
wanted distraction.
Sometimes moments
like that make me sad that I will never truly be able to experience
life in Tanzania as a Tanzanian, but it's a blessing in many ways,
too. First, I'm completely humbled to realize, even after an entire
year (which really isn't that long), that it is impossible to ever
truly experience the life of another person. Could I really be so
naïve and insensitive to think that magically in one year I could
figure out the culture and life of an entire population of people?
As deeply as I wish to feel Tanzania as authentically as possible, it
is a good realization to recognize the complexity of culture, and to
see that it is more than simply a puzzle to sort out. The shoes of
my friends here aren't easy to slip into. There are times that they
might let me borrow their sandals for an hour or two, but to truly
wear this life won't happen. It takes a great deal of humble respect
to maintain this perspective, when my heart wants to put on the
shoes, dresses, and weave my hair of this life.
But at the same
time, my foreignness here is also a unique gift. Sometimes I get to
be the distraction when people are mourning the loss of a child.
Simply my presence, nothing that I say or do, but my being in the
same room ignites smiles, curiosity, and laughter – it really has
nothing to do with 'Laura', but with the existence of an open-hearted
foreigner. That grandmother won't remember my name, or even my face,
but there's a chance she might remember the white woman who once
shared in her mourning and offered her “sorry.”
I wish I could
write more about this, but my thoughts aren't all sorted out. It's
funny how you tend to learn in retrospect. I wonder if my real
learning and changing will actually happen after I return home in a
few years (hehe – just kidding Mom, Aunt Jean, Aunt Jan, and Aunt
Helen! I heard about your text messages!).
We eventually
left the msiba, went back to finish and eat a delicious lunch of
pilau and katumbali, and Mama Shayo and I took a little rest in the
only finished room in her house – a room actually separate from her
home, but has a tiled floor and a tv, but no furniture. She shared a
bottle of wine with me that she got from the local vineyard in Dodoma
and promised to take me there someday when her friend is working. I
told her about my family that was coming to visit and she got so
excited. She asked if I would bring them to her home, which secretly
I had been hoping to do, and told her I'd love to. We both rejoiced
in the excitement of that interaction, her because she loves hosting
people, and me because I can't wait to share her and her life with my
family.
Before leaving
her home, we stopped back at the grandmother's home one last time.
This time, there were a few men there praying and reading from the
Bible, and everyone was singing beautiful and touching songs about
Jesus and his love for us. The whole thing was incredible to
witness, to feel the simultaneous pain and hope of the room.
